BIO
Lewis LaCook makes things. He is a programmer/poet. He likes unstable objects. He doesn't eat enough. Send him all your money.
Re: Re: NYT review of ArtBase 101
If the art can't engage a casual user, what's the
point?
bliss
l
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Lewis LaCook -->Poet-Programmer|||http://lewislacook.corporatepa.com/|||
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point?
bliss
l
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No More Movements...
Lewis LaCook -->Poet-Programmer|||http://lewislacook.corporatepa.com/|||
__________________________________
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Take Yahoo! Mail with you! Check email on your mobile phone.
http://mobile.yahoo.com/learn/mail
New Work: The Deitel Mods -- The Honey Moon
The Deitel Mods is a series of variations on an applet
based on examples found in the book Java How to
Program (Prentice Hall, 1998) by H.M. and P.J. Deitel.
The book is an oft-used textbook for computer
programming students wishing to learn web programming
using the Open Source, cross-platform language Java.
Applet #1. The Honey Moon
http://lewislacook.corporatepa.com/the_deitel_mods/
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Lewis LaCook -->Poet-Programmer|||http://lewislacook.corporatepa.com/|||
__________________________________________________
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based on examples found in the book Java How to
Program (Prentice Hall, 1998) by H.M. and P.J. Deitel.
The book is an oft-used textbook for computer
programming students wishing to learn web programming
using the Open Source, cross-platform language Java.
Applet #1. The Honey Moon
http://lewislacook.corporatepa.com/the_deitel_mods/
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No More Movements...
Lewis LaCook -->Poet-Programmer|||http://lewislacook.corporatepa.com/|||
__________________________________________________
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Re: invention
Dissatisfaction is the spinster auntie of invention.
And, also, lemons.
--- Jim Andrews <jim@vispo.com> wrote:
> Dissatisfaction is the auntie of invention.
>
> ja
> http://vispo.com
>
> +
> -> post: list@rhizome.org
> -> questions: info@rhizome.org
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> -> give: http://rhizome.org/support
> -> visit: on Fridays the Rhizome.org web site is
> open to non-members
> +
> Subscribers to Rhizome are subject to the terms set
> out in the
> Membership Agreement available online at
> http://rhizome.org/info/29.php
>
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Lewis LaCook -->Poet-Programmer|||http://lewislacook.corporatepa.com/|||
____________________________________________________
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Rekindle the Rivalries. Sign up for Fantasy Football
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And, also, lemons.
--- Jim Andrews <jim@vispo.com> wrote:
> Dissatisfaction is the auntie of invention.
>
> ja
> http://vispo.com
>
> +
> -> post: list@rhizome.org
> -> questions: info@rhizome.org
> -> subscribe/unsubscribe:
> http://rhizome.org/preferences/subscribe.rhiz
> -> give: http://rhizome.org/support
> -> visit: on Fridays the Rhizome.org web site is
> open to non-members
> +
> Subscribers to Rhizome are subject to the terms set
> out in the
> Membership Agreement available online at
> http://rhizome.org/info/29.php
>
***************************************************************************
No More Movements...
Lewis LaCook -->Poet-Programmer|||http://lewislacook.corporatepa.com/|||
____________________________________________________
Yahoo! Sports
Rekindle the Rivalries. Sign up for Fantasy Football
http://football.fantasysports.yahoo.com
Black Holes - A Networked Generative Literary Object
I like to look at other people's snapshots, don't you?
The voyeur in me is titilated by imagining the skeins
of love and betrayal between distant people in
indifferent photographs. Why are those two, husband
and wife according to the caption, sitting so far
apart? Why is he looking away? What does that haunted
look on the face of the son mean?
http://lewislacook.corporatepa.com/BlackHoles/
FlashMX, PHP
Sound
hosted by Corporate Performance Artists
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Lewis LaCook -->Poet-Programmer|||http://lewislacook.corporatepa.com/|||
__________________________________
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The voyeur in me is titilated by imagining the skeins
of love and betrayal between distant people in
indifferent photographs. Why are those two, husband
and wife according to the caption, sitting so far
apart? Why is he looking away? What does that haunted
look on the face of the son mean?
http://lewislacook.corporatepa.com/BlackHoles/
FlashMX, PHP
Sound
hosted by Corporate Performance Artists
***************************************************************************
No More Movements...
Lewis LaCook -->Poet-Programmer|||http://lewislacook.corporatepa.com/|||
__________________________________
Discover Yahoo!
Have fun online with music videos, cool games, IM and more. Check it out!
http://discover.yahoo.com/online.html
from The Golden Path
The robots comb her goosepimpled flesh. 'It'll all be
over soon,' she said. "
"He slips into the hole he constructs of crossing over
blackedout cities."
"She's taking a lot of time giving him directions but
i'm a cowboy difference"
"Twisted rainbow sugar pours from his crotch."
"Get it out of him, Ed!"
"Another hour's not gonna bother me. With a cigarette.
Whittling down. Between my fingers. Clenched in
cherish lips snoring baby tense with clutter. On
leaper pills. Don't jump pa! I love these scattered
these chaotic machines. We're weaving. Let's build a
family now Mary out of this moment poetry you're
asleep. 'Do my dreams difference when i'm writing?'"
"Nosebleed powder-powered fresh chem nipple flares
just a minute of whizzie drooled all the cakemix you'd
want."
"Mmmmmmmmmmmmm"
"The elderly. Sitting on the front porch now, coked
and cascading, trying to understand the difference
between her white skin and deep dusk hair. A lighter
color pops yer eyes."
I was sitting around one Saturday night, watching
Murnau's Vampire, after having raised my voice with
the kids, Jeran hyper/linked and coking a nerf pistol,
my nose stuffed with all of it, dripping. There is a
bronze light, an amber emanation, naming solemnly
every object in the room. Count Orloff extends a cold
claw. Mary Andrea, now I fit and don't fit, we kiss
and I'm comforted, I am less afraid, though I should
be. Wait: Blubber Boy's back. Framed in a coffin
doorway. I was sitting around so waiting for writing
this down to emerge breathless themes that explore.
The tired. With that wooden Jamaican pipe loamy with
cannabis. We have a fluorescent bar that spikes your
eyes with sleepy liquid and your fist siphoning
phosphor pith alludes. We were looking for birth, but
all we found were the filled-in spaces between our
silences, and all of us here, photosensitive, remain
realistic. This text, for example, and its honeycomb
curl to nowhere. This rosary hung over plaster,
melting through your hands, whispering psalms. Blood
on the backs of his hands. Light light light light
light light light light light. He paused, allowing
time for the brightness to settle. Once her muscles
were as fluent and pliable as doppler gangrene
elevating forest simples from dust to suddeness, he
let his mouth thought calmly along her salty throat,
throwing sparks into the night like a firefly
apocalypse. The same situation, the same spot: I can't
leave Inyuasha! Drawing schema, driftng through
machinations. Am I itimidating when you first meet me?
When typing, you don't dot your eyes. I push my
glasses back up my nose, smile; the room's so full of
dull moons counting noise, dull murmur ambulatory and
balanced, the cars trill through ribcage cities just
to sit here, or there. It's liquid fuel. I was sitting
in Mary's chair one day coughing up cannabis. In their
world, everything explodes; they haven't reached the
edge of the paper yet, the swirls of thinner cutlet
tilted but lighting times her all over the walls,
asleep, bed of roof and furry dirt. Not fruit.
***************************************************************************
No More Movements...
Lewis LaCook -->Poet-Programmer|||http://lewislacook.corporatepa.com/|||
__________________________________
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over soon,' she said. "
"He slips into the hole he constructs of crossing over
blackedout cities."
"She's taking a lot of time giving him directions but
i'm a cowboy difference"
"Twisted rainbow sugar pours from his crotch."
"Get it out of him, Ed!"
"Another hour's not gonna bother me. With a cigarette.
Whittling down. Between my fingers. Clenched in
cherish lips snoring baby tense with clutter. On
leaper pills. Don't jump pa! I love these scattered
these chaotic machines. We're weaving. Let's build a
family now Mary out of this moment poetry you're
asleep. 'Do my dreams difference when i'm writing?'"
"Nosebleed powder-powered fresh chem nipple flares
just a minute of whizzie drooled all the cakemix you'd
want."
"Mmmmmmmmmmmmm"
"The elderly. Sitting on the front porch now, coked
and cascading, trying to understand the difference
between her white skin and deep dusk hair. A lighter
color pops yer eyes."
I was sitting around one Saturday night, watching
Murnau's Vampire, after having raised my voice with
the kids, Jeran hyper/linked and coking a nerf pistol,
my nose stuffed with all of it, dripping. There is a
bronze light, an amber emanation, naming solemnly
every object in the room. Count Orloff extends a cold
claw. Mary Andrea, now I fit and don't fit, we kiss
and I'm comforted, I am less afraid, though I should
be. Wait: Blubber Boy's back. Framed in a coffin
doorway. I was sitting around so waiting for writing
this down to emerge breathless themes that explore.
The tired. With that wooden Jamaican pipe loamy with
cannabis. We have a fluorescent bar that spikes your
eyes with sleepy liquid and your fist siphoning
phosphor pith alludes. We were looking for birth, but
all we found were the filled-in spaces between our
silences, and all of us here, photosensitive, remain
realistic. This text, for example, and its honeycomb
curl to nowhere. This rosary hung over plaster,
melting through your hands, whispering psalms. Blood
on the backs of his hands. Light light light light
light light light light light. He paused, allowing
time for the brightness to settle. Once her muscles
were as fluent and pliable as doppler gangrene
elevating forest simples from dust to suddeness, he
let his mouth thought calmly along her salty throat,
throwing sparks into the night like a firefly
apocalypse. The same situation, the same spot: I can't
leave Inyuasha! Drawing schema, driftng through
machinations. Am I itimidating when you first meet me?
When typing, you don't dot your eyes. I push my
glasses back up my nose, smile; the room's so full of
dull moons counting noise, dull murmur ambulatory and
balanced, the cars trill through ribcage cities just
to sit here, or there. It's liquid fuel. I was sitting
in Mary's chair one day coughing up cannabis. In their
world, everything explodes; they haven't reached the
edge of the paper yet, the swirls of thinner cutlet
tilted but lighting times her all over the walls,
asleep, bed of roof and furry dirt. Not fruit.
***************************************************************************
No More Movements...
Lewis LaCook -->Poet-Programmer|||http://lewislacook.corporatepa.com/|||
__________________________________
Yahoo! Mail
Stay connected, organized, and protected. Take the tour:
http://tour.mail.yahoo.com/mailtour.html