diabola in musica

because perfection isn't easy

The Chromatic Typewriter, Tyree Callahan

I don’t think one could paint washes with this typewriter, but the concept is still brilliant. Immediately I imagined a machine that prints letters in the colors they would appear to a grapheme → color synesthete. Since it can’t have the same printing mechanism as an ordinary typewriter (i.e. mallets hitting only one ink ribbon), making the variant could be difficult, but the challenge of engineering a synesthetic typewriter feels just as exciting as having one when you’re done.

The Color Of is a fantastic web application that returns the color of anything by aggregating image data taken from Flickr. Some of the queries are predictable. If you look for red, you will get a wash of red. The color of grass is, naturally, green. But other searches, especially those of more abstract concepts, may have surprising results. I tried to see if any of my colors matched the finds from the search engine. None of them were right. The fusion of images often resulted in a dulling, browning effect, and my colors often are very bright. After some experimentation, however, I found an image that was close enough. The blend of red (peace) and yellow (happiness) created a contented joy, which was just right for a day like today. Zoom

The Color Of is a fantastic web application that returns the color of anything by aggregating image data taken from Flickr. Some of the queries are predictable. If you look for red, you will get a wash of red. The color of grass is, naturally, green. But other searches, especially those of more abstract concepts, may have surprising results.

I tried to see if any of my colors matched the finds from the search engine. None of them were right. The fusion of images often resulted in a dulling, browning effect, and my colors often are very bright. After some experimentation, however, I found an image that was close enough. The blend of red (peace) and yellow (happiness) created a contented joy, which was just right for a day like today.

How To Leave The World That Worships Should

This is PMS, not BAD or TBI. Rarely are these shifts in mood so obviously predictable, like the grinding gears of clicking clockwork. I routinely, rapidly cycle through highs and lows, but rarely is it this specific brand of irritability and desolation. This is not the elated energy of hypomania nor the insecure musings from memory loss. The clipped quips and the stifled sniffles are simply, thankfully, the announcement of menses. Rarely are my moods so simple.

My conditions more often create strange combinations: Chirpy chatter about disease and death, creative endeavors from depression and despair, savage libido, anxious insomnia. Bits of one slide seamlessly into another. The T swaps with the P, and sometimes the B joins the D. I am never sure which will I meet in the morning. BBD? TAS? Or would it be TMI?

When I woke, sun had already filled the room. I shut my eyes against the light, knowing I wouldn’t need an alarm again until September. I had seen the clock. It was already 5 AM.

I needed to get to work.

The palette of emotions spread behind my closed lids. Absent were the scarlet irritation pinching my tongue and the amber anxiety that made my hands quaver. Was I depressed? No, the Prussian blue wasn’t there to weigh upon my heart. But at my throat was the smokey grey, that dreadful insecurity. The past few weeks weren’t gentle to my confidence. I’d stopped wondering what I was good at to question what I was good for. Just at that thought, tiny dots of blue sprouted in the grey, darkening the shade. Too much blue, I knew, would lead to a deathly black.

In the past, even just last year, I would have been overwhelmed by the colors, until I was lambasted with black and blue. I knew this grey now. A calm reasoned ivory would keep the color light, and a joyful lemon yellow should keep my day bright. Though competition was tough in the job market, I was still competitive. If looking for work became too stressful, I was to relax with friends over the weekend. I released a sigh as the grey faded to translucence. Finally, I could see my saffron orange shine through.

Every day is a different array of moods and colors, but I have long stopped sorting their origins and implications. Grey is normal. The colorful eruptions throughout my days are normal. This acceptance helps me focus, helps me keep the blacks and blues at bay.

All I need is assurance, the confidence that I will still be here tomorrow despite the flares of reds and fogs of grey. I’ve been menstruating for sixteen years and I am still here. I’ve been cycling through hypomania and depression week after week and I am still here.

My inner world is deeply unstable, but I am not. Behind all these moods, my orange is still here. I am still here. I am still here.