Vocal recording device is working out great. It doesn’t take too much energy to keep it going, and the way I use it, a pair of batteries lasts about a month. I’d like to edit my recordings and put them into posts in place of texts, every now and then, but there are some issues:
I have a poor vocal presence when not performing dramatically.
I’ll have to pay this damn site to feature audio files in posts.
Most of my recorded notes and conversations aren’t within contexts that I can assume others who aren’t present at each recording will be able to understand or have the patience to continue listening.
The primary subjects and relevance of my notes vary through a single day, like lights at a rave club.
With these things, I still think I can set up an interesting audio blog (podcast) with practice, help, and ingenuity. It’ll be one of the first in many steps to achieve my wild imaginings of FrankFest and The Fester, two intertwined dream projects of mine. One is a cross-country film festival occurring in multiple major cities at once, and the other is a forum/news source for nerds of the arts.
At the Memphis College of Art, where I hope to complete an admission application soon, I may meet others with similar goals and ambitions with whom I can fuel these ideas together, while experimenting in acting and aesthetics.
Imagine the birth of an empire: a handful of college kids put everything into a series of comic and film projects, each new thing funded by the last, each of many future goals feeding each other to grow a series of companies under my command, producing films, printing magazines and comics, posting news and hiring the freshest, coolest, best young talents to act, direct, edit, blog, report, illustrate, and probably most importantly, write. Until I reach a point of status to face public media ridicule, and the trolls will be begging for the slimmest chance of backlash.
I’ll open a restaurant that serves Paul Newman’s salad dressing. Pictures of me shaking the hands of the greatest modern talents will center every booth, like a collection of “I met the president” photographs.
Clever self-taught street artists will demonize me, and use me as the center of their popular statements of outrage.
Widely accepted rumors of my false, nonsensical devious sexuality will be the image of my later life, while those who crack jokes regard my craft with dignity and awe, and never connect the dots.
I’ll strike fear and anger in the hearts of young rebels who want what I will have, and never realize it until one, like myself, will accomplish it.
My select quotes will be recited as often as pop-culture will reference my utter disgust for Robert Frost’s work.
My ideas and style will appear so unique to the youths who observe my work decades after their time, that homages to me will become a standard, and eventually the norm. In this way, I will command the human genius and rule terrestrial art from beyond the grave. Even my persona will be swayed by the years following my death, and all that will remain is a legend of a character, who will be seen with every fiber of greatness that I hope to see in myself.
Smith, I hope you read all of that.
