tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:/posts mark von rosenstiel is present. 2018-05-02T10:31:40Z tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1279459 2018-05-02T10:30:24Z 2018-05-02T10:31:40Z what it's like to be disappointed in someone and yourself at the same time.

It was a windy day and she shouted at me from the street, two stories down below, that she needed a cigarette. I would throw them down in futility as they were continually caught in gusts of wind and carried off into trees; cigarette bird nests building up like snow drifts on remote Canadian highways. She kept on making the signal to throw down more: two hands raised towards the sky before quickly flicking her hands down towards her shoulders. 

“Throw more, Throw more.”

The pack was soon empty and I looked back into the hotel room, towards the end table, to see if another pack lay next to the bed. My eyes, however, were caught by the low quality carpet that the end table’s legs were plunged into. Each little, worn, tired loop of carpet seemed to be trying to lift the table up; I could hear each loop whispering about destiny and divinity as they believed themselves to be the foundation of all things; commands shouted among the loop groups at each of the four legs.

I saw a second pack atop the table, and gingerly walked over to pick it up, crushing as few of the carpet loops as possible.

]]>
tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1275606 2018-04-22T12:57:47Z 2018-04-22T12:57:47Z Pre Patent number: 9355431


A system for transferring any (flat) 5x5, two-dimensional array of information into a binary 5x5, two-dimensional array of information.
]]>
tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1275261 2018-04-21T11:13:18Z 2018-04-21T12:26:41Z another duration (only missing a motor)
]]>
tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1274985 2018-04-20T13:19:58Z 2018-04-20T16:48:05Z a pin is a utopia

I met most of my friends on the head of a pin. We had wandered aimlessly across a two dimensional surface of pockmark metal: manufacturing defects that undermined the sheen of a perfect cylinder. Heads down and shuffled feet continued until a moment when we suddenly found ourselves at the tip of a device meant for securing fabric or otherwise entertaining children as they pushed into the body of a plush tomato stuffed with batting. The loneliness of this single moment lead us to an opposite pole where a utopia meant a moment spread out in time; a circle that encompassed a place that belonged away from solitude.

What was it about the purchase of thread that made my heart race? I thought of the wrapping of material on spool like scandalous dance moves on a floor flooded with strobe lights and sweat and a singular woman looking at me across a space too full with lust. I needed at that moment something spun taught with a dye of a hue like meteors bursting above random cities in Russia. 

(All that laid on my apartment floor were the makings for dress shirts that had no specific design for collar -- peaked or otherwise -- but owned a formality for a future moment that felt too certain.)
]]>
tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1274980 2018-04-20T13:06:38Z 2018-04-20T13:20:51Z The Ping.
John Playfair said on witnessing geological formations that had clearly taken millions of years to come to their current state, "The mind seemed to grow giddy by looking so far into the abyss of time." I stumbled on an article mentioning him talking about this (it's actually a good article) and it struck a chord with me about something I've been thinking about a lot recently: The Ping. The Ping is so named, not by me but a friend of mine (just recently, actually, when I had the pleasure of being put awash in her ideas and brilliance), as I was telling her about my hope that, in my lifetime, I will witness communication from aliens. 

And I'm not under the impression that we'll be sitting here on Earth and suddenly be in some Snapchat exchange with folks from another star system (maybe our own sister: https://www.theatlantic.com/technology/archive/2014/05/our-sun-has-a-sister/361962/), but I think there will be a moment that a structure of information will wash over earth, a wave finally coming along as an overly calm break, and we will see it's inherent structure and realize that there is a message within it. Nothing fancy. Just a Ping. And it will be hundreds of years before anything really comes of it.

But the abyss that will open with The Ping will be altering of our experience. It will expand our dimensionality of how we see the world; something 2D, now is 3D. Or maybe it's a little like western movie sets that all become real buildings. And as I spoke about this desire for The Ping I realized the emotional quality that existed in how I was speaking to my friend (and that her face looked far less emotionally engaged), and that my Ping, is maybe not all people's Ping. And I thought suddenly about how when some alien pokes us with an electromagnetic wave, not everyone will look skyward as one large group and all have a new sense of their humanity. I think I will. But probably a lot of people will use it as a way to deepen previous convictions; to show they were right about X, Y, and Z. 

Most the time we are presented with new information our first response is to fold it into what we already know; to slightly augment, but mostly bolster what are the foundations of our truth. But The Ping is something that I think, for a moment, would pull me into a moment of reflection on the entirety of my truth. Like an accountant auditing a business, but instead of auditing finances, this would be an audit of truth. It doesn't mean everything is necessarily wrong, but there may be a lot of basics that have shifted in a subtle, but important, way.  

The Ping is romantic -- I'm romantic -- and there are small Pings, too. It's any moment that speaks to a fluidity in things that we have almost allowed to completely harden; time, space, and belief. It speaks to essences, infinities, and scales where language fails. But I think it's good to be looking bright eyed and bushy tailed to the heavens every once in awhile to see if The Ping has made its entrance. It's an outlook on the world that I feel is better than the alternatives (like irony and cynicism).
]]>
tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1274975 2018-04-20T12:53:03Z 2018-04-20T12:53:04Z today ]]> tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1274604 2018-04-19T14:33:52Z 2018-04-19T14:33:53Z 10 minutes of mood ]]> tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1274493 2018-04-19T09:05:30Z 2018-04-19T09:05:31Z better than Christo ]]> tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1274172 2018-04-18T12:36:56Z 2018-04-18T12:36:57Z Prehistoric drawing of human leg bone or bird shit on a log ]]> tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1270960 2018-04-10T11:44:35Z 2018-04-10T11:44:35Z daydreaming rocks ]]> tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1266168 2018-03-28T15:45:05Z 2018-03-28T15:45:05Z I thought my girlfriend left me, but then remembered I am dating a miniature Dutch house made out of porcelain.
]]>
tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1265694 2018-03-27T09:49:24Z 2018-03-27T09:49:24Z a history of security ]]> tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1264502 2018-03-23T16:50:27Z 2018-03-23T16:52:04Z bang. you're dead.
]]>
tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1264501 2018-03-23T16:49:48Z 2018-03-23T16:52:47Z cleanup can be glorious (omg, that's a planet)
]]>
tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1260532 2018-03-12T22:44:20Z 2018-03-13T16:15:20Z that time we built a super straight clock tower (?)

They said we were stacking stones, waiting for god. The best I could tell, we were just  making a clock tower with a big bell in it. The bell currently hung between two mules parked outside of a blacksmith's shop. They didn't have names, but everyone said their ears were perfectly shaped like almonds. The bell was suspended by a small bamboo stalk, across the mule's backs, hanging about 2 feet from the ground; dust settled easily under the bell and sound was absorbed as if carelessly walking into the ocean. Like I said, I didn't know much about why stones needed to be stacked, but over time -- cleaning the surfaces, making things square -- that bell ended up just about where the tops of the trees ended. I also don't think I ever figured out anything about god, but once that bell was struck, pulled gently by a rope attached to the braying of a donkey, the sound didn't walk aimlessly into the ocean, it seemed to wander around in the clouds; maybe a bit like someone sitting quietly alone reading a newspaper.
]]>
tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1259382 2018-03-10T14:14:59Z 2018-03-10T14:15:00Z Eastern European Apple ad. ]]> tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1250192 2018-02-20T04:42:33Z 2018-02-20T18:11:22Z MOMENTS THAT HELP KEEP THE PACE OF TIME (this may possibly be a duration)
I know a woman who mumbles words into my armpit. I never can hear what she says, but I love that it reminds me of how much more there always is to say to her.

Under this boat, a hull supports, which is held up by water.
down
down
down
the water goes, actually becoming quite bright. Stones sit on shores with wispy seaweed hair as videos are made for high school loves. 

Tilt your head and squint an eye against oblique sunlight through cafe windows and you'll see a single stone, perhaps on a shore or at some ocean depth, where kelp is seeded, growing
up
up 
up
towards parted waves that hold a song about home. Home is large sunglasses and musk. Home is a lot of things I have yet to see.
]]>
tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1233930 2018-01-18T17:20:51Z 2018-01-18T17:20:51Z siskel and ebert
Has anything every been too fast? Or too furious? Seems impossible...
]]>
tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1233795 2018-01-18T13:29:09Z 2018-01-18T13:29:09Z daydream
I had this thought while I was sitting in a cafe, that there was the possibility that the next time I came to the cafe it would be in the middle of a robbery. The robber would only let people go who could prove they had been in the cafe before. I became really excited when, in the present moment, I saw this small, golden tack pressed into the ceiling near my table. 

I envisioned my future self, strolling into the cafe with headphones on, oblivious to the current state of affairs. As I wipe my feet on the entry mat, I look up to see myself face-to-face with a man in a ski  mask holding a gun, demanding if I have ever been in this cafe before. I maintain eye contact, and slowly raise my right hand towards the ceiling, off to my right side out of my line of site, finger extended. I simply say: A golden tack.

I am set free.
]]>
tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1233440 2018-01-17T18:49:44Z 2018-01-17T19:50:04Z ham and cheese Waiting for a traffic light to change green, she and I decided to start a band called "Rome Was Totally Built in a Day". In the lane next to us was a panel van that had a bobble head of Seattle icon Ken Griffey JR on the dashboard. The man driving the car was shaving himself with an electric razor; one of those ones that has three circular cutting heads organized to be as close as possible on a planar surface. 

We'd practice together everyday while laying around on the floor of a friend's garage. Our first song was titled "Ken Griffey JR doesn't care how I drive, he just loves me." We thought it was hilarious and talked about what our friends would think about it when we eventually played it for them. We'd go round and round changing verses.

One night it got a bit late and we decided to go to the cinema after practice and see some Marvel movie that was in theaters. It was one of the ones where no one is wearing a cape. The theater had a new addition of ham and cheese popcorn; we both were really excited. I suggested we write a new song called, "Ham and cheese popcorn tastes good while falling in love in a theatre." She laughed and rolled her eyes. 

We never played any of our songs to our friends.
]]>
tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1233435 2018-01-17T18:45:59Z 2018-01-17T18:52:37Z we're either destroying ourselves our discovering the words for color
It's been exciting to see this piece come to life. It's also been awesome to finish a whole two days early from opening and have 48 hours to sit around, bite my nails, and hope nothing breaks. This has also been one of the more nebulous pieces I've made in recent memory, in that the ideas that have gone into it have contracted and expanded within my head a lot more than usual. Where it started is still there, but it's a bit like a 40 year old talking about what sort of lunches he had in kindergarten and how it currently impacts his life.


]]>
tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1229296 2018-01-09T18:20:33Z 2018-01-09T18:20:34Z the gang. ]]> tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1228687 2018-01-08T20:42:38Z 2018-01-08T20:42:39Z A few more nests and one ton of mineral dust and I'll call it finished. ]]> tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1227476 2018-01-06T14:41:47Z 2018-01-06T14:41:48Z the walk from apartment to buying a welding helmet
]]>
tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1219769 2017-12-21T12:42:19Z 2017-12-21T12:42:20Z tumble weeds from the future. ]]> tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1216900 2017-12-14T21:36:33Z 2018-01-14T18:09:19Z too much butter

He started buttoning his shirt from the very top button: the one that is hidden by the knot of a tie. Most people start at the button 3 or 4 down and then work their way up or down like a beagle following the scent of some wounded animal; or maybe a black lab, golden retriever mix with the buttons like small cookies as she makes her way along the outdoor seating area of a bakery.

He owned a small restaurant that was very expensive and didn't have many tables. The only hors d'oeuvre was an entire stick of butter elegantly presented adorned with edible flowers and drizzled with extremely rare olive oil; olive oil created from olives picked from a tree outside the kitchen and ground using human-powered grindstones. A single, toasted piece of bread was served cleaved into the mass of butter; wedged like airplane wreckage among an earth made of dairy. 

Customers would be served this dish, no matter their desires, before their meal. Without fail, they would look cautiously around the restaurant trying to gauge if they were, in fact, supposed to eat the entire stick of butter with only the single dried piece of bread. Since there were so few tables and eating times were always staggered, they had no reference, and fearing embarrassment about not being part of the in crowd, they would consume the entire serving of butter on the tiny cracker; a dairy haystack overburdening a small wagon made of wheat.

When he went home from work, his nose would always be running, but he refused to carry a handkerchief. Instead, he stared up at the ceiling of the metro pretending to examine the route map, letting the snot drip down the back of his throat.

He was usually home by 11.
]]>
tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1216704 2017-12-14T14:57:57Z 2017-12-14T14:57:58Z weekend. oil pastel, lighter fluid, toothbrush. ]]> tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1216218 2017-12-13T19:33:30Z 2017-12-13T19:33:30Z I get it: could not find out1. Duration/Time tests in C4D. ]]> tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1216070 2017-12-13T14:21:19Z 2017-12-13T14:21:19Z new machine idea ]]> tag:markvonrosenstiel.posthaven.com,2013:Post/1216066 2017-12-13T14:19:18Z 2017-12-13T14:19:19Z budapest landscape ]]>