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Digital Story Brainstorm: Mongolia, A Land of Contradictions

Mongolia. A land whose name is more powerful than her government. The nation that brought us the great Chinggis Khaan, Man of the Millenium, and his as yet unsurpassed empire. Yet today she must sell herself to the west, desperate for third neighbors who care more about her politics than her coal and gold. One of the original lands of Buddhism, the creators of the Dalai Llama, yet increasingly filled with sparkling Mormon churches and ecstatic evangelists.

Yet the sky continues to truly rule this land.

FDf;lkdjsfl; GAHH.

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Digital Story – 7:07pm (damn broken dates!)

My Digital Story is FINISHED at last! (for now)

I’m posting it over at the Internet Archive, a haven for open-source media of all shapes and sizes.
Head on over and have a look-see… be sure to leave your thoughts and reactions here!
Alex’s Digital Story

(You can also watch it right here)

I’m going to try out ccPublisher to post it… check it out

What is it?
CC Publisher is a tool that does two things: it will help you tag your audio and video files with information about your license and it allows you to upload Creative Commons-licensed audio and video works to the Internet Archive for free hosting. You also have the option of publishing the licensed and tagged audio works on your own site.

So, the story itself…
Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike2.5 License.

Acknowledgements:
Thank you so much to the following individuals for providing your works for free on the internet with creativity-friendly licenses… Without you this project would have been impossible!

Photos:
the following flickr.com users:
Laughing Squid
Chubby Bat
Grant Neufeld
Cobalt Femme
bjortklingd

Sound Effects: the following freesoundproject.com users:
NoiseCollector
dropthedyle
schluppipuppie

Music: http://derekaudette.ottawaarts.com/music.php

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Digital Story v4.1

Digital Story v4.1 Sunday 1:32 pm (since the dates on this cursed blog are so messed up)
I have my Dad’s hands, hands that love to touch and create and build
and rampage.

I lie on the living room floor, legos spread out before me:
a sea of plastic possibilites. I hear their call

I feel it in my hands which seem to move of their own accord: searching, grasping, fitting.

My elbows burn as they sink deeper into the carpet. I feel I have it, this love, this need
to build
order from chaos.
to create. Or at least to try.
Then,
My hands fail, the pieces fly,
I feel the rage come to a boil, screaming through my veins.
I see myself from a distance, knuckles white as bone as they clutch what are now only remnants,
as they macerate.
And my dreams skitter across the room.

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Digital Story v4: My destruction

Digital Story v4
I have my Dad’s hands, hands that love to touch and create and build
and rampage.

I lay on the living room floor, legos spread out before me:
a sea of plastic possibilites. I hear their call

I feel it in my hands which seem to move of their own accord: searching, grasping, fitting.

My elbows burn as they sink deeper into the carpet. I feel I have it, this love, this need
to build
order from chaos.
to create. Or at least to try.
Then,
My hands fail, the pieces fly,
I feel the rage, the boiling blood and steam
I see it as though from a distance, my knuckles white as bone as they clutch what are now only remnants,
as they macerate.
And my dreams skitter across the room.

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A Response to Unit 1: Digital Stories

For me the first unit was about more than learning about digital stories – it was about creating the el170 space. The digital story then gave me a chance to dive in and get my proverbial hands dirty, truly experiencing the multidimensionality of writing. They helped me break through the assumptions I carry about how writing should be, by turning it completely inside out. Actually, it was more than just the digital stories. The whole process of playing writing games, creating-then-using our PUD’s, workshopping, reading and discussing, and of course blogging allowed my brain soak in the creative juices and loosen up. I’ve found it much easier to withhold judgment while writing, and allow the ideas to flow out and take whatever shape they need to. This has allowed me to create pieces that I never could have consciously forced myself to do.

I feel like now I am creating organically and producing spontaneous pieces that grow on their own without my stifling them. Our process has acted as a foundation for me, providing a sturdy base upon which to build. Like a form of self-hypnosis, I end up tricking my mind into disengaging from its traditional vigilance, and averting its ominous gaze. No longer under such pressure, the ideas are able to flourish unhindered. Then, I can feel good for having accomplished something, even if it is only filling a page of my notebook with words that are pure and natural rather than forced and over-processed.

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Digital Story v3: My destruction

Digital Story v3
In my hands I see my Dad. I lay sprawled out, , the the living room floor’s soft carpet burns, rough on my elblows. I see how I have it, his love to build, to press together, to feel the order of meshing gears.

Until the gears slip, the joints crack, and the base slips away. My blood sizzles, and with a swipe the neat lines and angles are crumbled, dissolved to sand, and swept away a sudden gust of wind. I shiver, and pick up what is left of my creation. My destruction

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Digital Story v2

Buzzing with anticipation, I drag my bin of legos into the center of the living room floor. I tip the bin up, unleashing a sea of pieces, little yellow men bobbing with the waves. The empty carpet calling to be covered is barely audible over the plastic rush.

So I build, fashion, fit. Deconstruct, retrofit, reassemble. My face contorted, I press harder, something won’t work. (“SHIT!” The release.)

These are two things I’ve inherited from my Dad: his building, and his short fuse. A spark of irritation sets the wick burning, hiss… BOOM. (“SHIT!” The release.)

Chunks fly, meet the carpet and dissolve into pieces again. I look around bewildered. Who said that? I did? Did I even know what it meant? Shit. But somehow I knew it was wrong, You’re not supposed to. But why not…? Back to my legos… Take a deep breath, try again.

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Digital Storyness, Maybe?

Ever since I was little I’ve loved working with my hands — pushing buttons, touching, breaking things, drawing, writing… One of my early memories is of building things with legos. I’d haul out the blue bin full of an endless assortment of pieces: straight, thin, thick, long, clear, curved, 3×6’s, 2×2’s, sheets, wings, jet engines, wheels, half-built motorcars; the ruins of civilizations gone by. Downstairs in the living room, safe from the dogs we still only wished for, out spilled the sea of plastic; little yellow men bobbing with the waves. The empty carpet calling to be covered.

So I built, and fashioned and fit. Deconstructed retrofitted, upgraded, disassembled. Tight fit, fragile joint come on… Almost there, what’s missing? Ah, these two fit together, they need to… so close — come on… no, not now! Ugh… Nothing, fumbling, “SHIT!”. Chunks fly, meet the carpet and dissolve into pieces again. I look around bewildered. Who said that? I did? Did I even know what it meant? Who cares, it felt good! Shit. Shiiiiit. Wait, I shouldn’t be saying this, but I don’t know why… back to my legos… take a deep breath, try again.

Two things I’ve inherited from my Dad: his hands, and his temper. He callls it “having a short fuse”, which isn’t a bad metaphor. The spark sets the wick burning, and after a few short seconds of oxygen to feed the fizz, BOOM. The stick of dynamite has blown itself to bits, self-destructed, taking whoever is nearby right along for the ride. Sure it feels good, it feels great. To be filled with that rage is like controlling your own thunderstorm, except the storm is inside you. The lighting hits you first, and those you love. And the things you hold most dear. Your lego creations. Or your laptop. (Woops).

Worse is the paralyzing rage, it builds and builds, growing out of frustration. Each second of inaction feeds it, but never satiates it. Its favorite snacks include the empty page, the blank screen, or even an extra dry journal article. Poorly written, overly cliché, too obvious, not original enough. All sweet treats to this different beast. Not borne out of trauma, or sudden events, but gradually (it’s all relative, of course). Then BOOM. And the pages flit about the room.