Cassiopeia Magazine Issue 5 by Cassiopeia Magazine

Cassiopeia 5

creative arts & reviews

OVERHEARD THE STORY IN THE SOUNDSCAPE Creative writing inspired by sound clips

REVIEWS

Listen in on the hidden world of audio gaming

POP! CRACK! The noisiest recipe we could think of

Eavesdropping, TV without pictures and art made by sound

SHHHH!

IT’S THE OVERHEARD ISSUE

THE STORY IN THE SOUNDSCAPE 8 ‘ANATIDAEPHOBIA’

by Tom Davies

10 ‘ON OVERHEARING NO WORDS’

by Richard Ford Burley

11 ‘ON PIGEONS’

by Kats Handel

13 ‘FOOTSTEPS IN THE SNOW’

by Eleanor Wood

14 ‘HALF SEAS OVER’

by Hannah Phillips

ORIGINAL WRITING 24 ‘WHERE ARE THE PICTURES?’

the sound of missing footage by Chris Dunn

32 ‘MISDIRECTION’

a case of mistaken identity by James Errington

36 ‘THE SPOKEN WORD’

story by Owain Paciuszko

40 ‘EAVESDROPPING’

your favourite overheard conversations

ARTWORK 17 ILLUSTRATIONS

by Amee Christian

18 ‘DANCING COLORS’

by Fabian Oefner

30 WHAT WHAT?

visions of a world befor radar

41 ‘OVERHEARDS’

by Sarah Peploe

REVIEWS 38 ‘THE GIFT OF SOUND AND VISION’

the world of audio gaming

RECIPES 34 NOISY POPCORN BRITTLE

by Rachel Backa

WELCOME Hello, and welcome to issue 5 of Cassiopeia where this time the theme ‘Overheard’. This issue we’ll ask you to read with your ears open as we introduce the winners of our ‘Story in The Soundscape’ competition. We also have articles on sound-only video games, the recording technology that is helping to restore lost archives and the story of a world where speaking becomes the only means of communication. There’s also artwork inspired by overheard conversations and the noisiest recipe we could think of. Thanks for listening in. If you find you’d like to comment or contribute to future issued please email us at submit@ cassiopeiamagazine.co.uk

Katie Davies

www.cassiopeiamagazine.co.uk submit@cassiopeiamagazine.co.uk

Editor

facebook.com/CassiopeiaMag twitter.com/CassiopeiaMag issuu.com/cassiopeiamagazine

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CONTRIBUTORS

Amee Christian is a recent graduate of JLMU who creates murals, album cover designs, gig posters, logos, t-shirt designs as well as editorial work for various art, music and culture magazines. ameechristian.tumblr.com www.ameechristian.co.uk

Chris Dunn started out in the world of computing, dabbled with acting and painting, he now concentrates on writing, dividing his time between short stories, plays and non-fiction articles.

Rachel Backa is a Canadian currently studying in the UK. She has an odd fascination with hedgehogs and a newly-found love of vintage radio dramas. She thinks baking is the perfect form of both stress-relief and procrastination, and looks for any excuse to try something new.

Owain Paciuszko writes waffle for a bunch of websites, makes short films and music videos for his own amusement and plays keyboards/â&#x20AC;&#x2122;singsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; in a band. He grew up in Cornwall, studied in Wales and currently lives in London. When he grows up he wants to be a space captain.

James Errington is currently writing about every song by Pulp at pulpsongs.wordpress. com. The rest of his time is spent managing 11 teachers and sitting on buses. He lives in Beijing with his wife, baby and in-laws. Send him some aubergine pickle.

Sarah Peploe was born in Norwich in 1986. She loves to write, read, draw, and maintain vituperative inner monologues while going about her business. She lives in York with a lovely man and a Freecycled Selmer organ.

quackspout.blogspot.com

CONTRIBUTORS

Alex Terry is an Editorial Designer with a pet hate for terrible kerning. Designing magazines all day is not enough so when he gets home he creates t-shirts and occasionally squeezes in arranging the pages of Cassiopeia.

Katie Davies is a self employed designer and crafter from the Midlands. Most days youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll find her sewing, cooking, writing or a combination thereof. luckyladybirdcraft.co.uk

365tshirtdesigns.com

Fabian Oefner is a talented photographer based in Switzerland whose work marries visual aesthetics and science. He works from his photo studio on assignments for various industries and realizes free projects. Most of his work has to do with bringing science and art together. www.fabianoefner.com

You, yes you! Want to write for Cassiopeia Magazine? Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re always on the look out for new writers and contributors. Email us now at submit@cassiopeiamagazine. co.uk with your ideas and submissions. For issue updates, news and competitions sign up to our mailing list at www.cassiopeiamagazine.co.uk

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THE STORY IN THE SOUNDSCAPE The following pieces of creative writing have been inspired by audio recordings. Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve enabled links to the original audio so plug in your headphones, click the link, return to the mag and get reading :)

A N AT I D A E P H O B I A “The fear that wherever you are, a duck is watching” TOM DAVIES

http://sounds.bl.uk/World-and-traditional-music/Carol-Tingey-Nepal-Collection/025M-C1465X0072XX-1000V0

The ducks are watching me again. I can’t stand it when they sit out there on the pond. Looking. I was just sitting down to read my book (Gout and How to Get It by some writer with fat hands) when I heard them again. Listened to them, karking and macking, their little tongues waggling away as they laughed up a bread roll. “HILARIOUS! THAT’S RIGHT, DUCKS, HILARIOUS, ISN’T IT?” I shouted out to them. Of course, every time I do this the old kook upstairs will reply with some old colloquial wisdom like, “My knife is not sharp enough to easily cut through a house brick!” Or “That mirror is ugly because it is reflecting my face, which is ugly!” I walk around with ear defenders on, mostly. My grandfather was a kook too. He would fill his pockets with onions and sit on the tube shouting at the top of his voice, “Who the hell has brought onions on the tube?! I can stink them from here, you pervert!” He got no pleasure 8

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out of deceiving the commuters but rather saw it as his duty to bring to their attention that, when on the tube, the smell of onions is simply awful. He was right, it is, and anyone who travels on the tube with a bag of onions is a pervert. What I mean to say is that I’ve always been surrounded by kooks. I don’t mind them. We get on fine. No, what I mean to say is that I hate ducks. They get away with way too much. I saw one duck, in a river I think he was, repeatedly pushing another duck’s head underwater. It was fine because, obviously, ducks like water or whatever, but if it had been a human man that duck was pushing underwater, I’ll bet he would have given as much of a crap as he did when it was a duck - which is zero percent of a crap. They’re bad animals, ducks. I complained to the council about the noise and the staring once. They replied with a blank piece of paper folded around a single down feather. It’s hard to know whether they were

making fun of me or whether they’re in with the ducks. Either way, I know I’m on my own. Oh, they’ve stopped. Thank god, the incessant laughing has sto- oh, no, they’re off again. Oh, look, some young idiots just threw them an old New York style deli bagel, that’s what’s got them going. “Hey! Yeah, you two! Ducks don’t like pastrami! That’s like animal cannibalism!...Because pastrami comes from an animal and a duck is an animal, you moron!... What?! Humans are not animals! That’s why we eat animals!...Yeah, and your mum’s face!” That’s the last thing I need, idiots riling them up again. Oh god, I shouldn’t have shouted. Now the ducks know which room I’m in. I’ll draw the curtains. No! Stupid! That’s the most suspicious thing I could do! I know, I’ll close one curtain and hang a poster of a polar bear in the other. That way, they’ll think a polar bear is watching TV in here and he’s had to close one curtain so that the sun’s not reflecting off the screen...Shit, it’s the afternoon, that doesn’t make sense. It

should be the other curtain that’s closed! There, that’s better. Good, the noise has stopped again. Though I’m positive they’ve seen through my polar bear ruse. I must keep calm. It was only a few days ago that Dr. Holland talked me through this. “Ducks don’t understand what a ruse is. They’re just birds, they’re completely oblivious to what we, as humans, do.” That’s right. They’re not looking at me, they’re not laughing at me. They’re just bird idiots and they’re quiet now. Deep breath, one, two, three. Hold. Out, two, three, four. The poster can come down, the curtains can open. Here’s a drawing of a pig with leprosy I did last night. I’ll just store that in the crook of my elbow for the time being. Look, the ducks aren’t even there any more! They’ve gone off to find more pastrami, I shouldn’t wonder, now they’ve got a taste for it. Was that?...No. I’ve just left the bathroom window open. Just a breeze blowing the shower curtain. It only sounds like the flapping of a water fowl’s wing. Though it wouldn’t hurt to check...I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched. Is that coming from the bedroom? My pillow! Feathers everywhere! Oh god. Oh god! The eyes! Twelve pairs of glassy, malevolent eyes! They were watching! 44

ON OVERHEARING NO WORDS RICHARD FORD BURLEY

http://sounds.bl.uk/World-and-traditional-music/Carol-Tingey-Nepal-Collection/025M-C1465X0072XX-0600V0

Sitting in the darkened room, the stereotype, the smoke wafts and the tablecloths run to the floor and puddle round her feet in the ambience of sound, the stage lit by footlights and a lamp on the piano. Tapping her foot as she sips at the symphony, the synergy, the theology and the geology, the low notes grumble through her shoes as the buzz touches her glass and the wine sings to her tongue, the loneliness of the treble tones honing their well-timed knife on the singsong soliloquy, the epigraph of sound, the midsummer wedding of holiness and want. Hers is the dedication from the musician, the statistician of sound and heartstrings, the playing of things that canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be said or read aloud, or brought to bear on a blooming buttonhole, or a beating heart. 10

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ON PIGEONS KATS HANDEL

http://sounds.bl.uk/Environment/Soundscapes/022M-W1CDR0000714-0100V0

“A pigeon is the same as a dove. Did you know that?” - Bridget Vreeland Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants Well, I do now! Thanks Bridget. There’s nothing better than a well-sourced, highbrow quotation to fill you with dread. I think it’s supposed to make me think that although pigeons are really ugly, disease-ridden winged rats, which scratch around in cities and flashmob me while I’m minding my own business eating a sandwich, whilst doves are all soft, lovely and serene, they’re actually the same inside and pigeons are just unfortunate in their exteriors. Like, give the pigeons some respect, ok? They can’t help it! Just like you reading this, with your pigeonly exterior and your dovely interior. You might look like a pigeon, but

we all know you’re a dove inside, and that’s what counts. It really makes you think. I don’t want to be associated in any way with pigeons. I am terrified of pigeons. I hate the way they suddenly take flight. I have been known to take both hands from my bicycle handlebars to instinctively cover my face when they do that flappy thing unexpectedly, with predictably disastrous results. Once, I stepped out of a subway station and was paralysed with fear to find myself surrounded by pigeons, eerily rising and landing, like little feathery puppets on invisible skyheld strings. I had to stand very still and breathe slowly, in-through-my-nose-andout-through-my-mouth, until they went away again. It took a few minutes. My friend who was with 44

me almost died laughing. That horrible sound they make when their wings flap open makes my heart beat faster every time, and a little knot of fear surfaces in my trachea. Pigeons are no joke to me. I believe that this is the pigeons extracting some kind of karmic revenge. Some of my clearest and earliest childhood memories include pigeons. When I was young, my oldest brother and I used to have what we called ‘pigeon fights’, which was basically running into crowds of pigeons on the pavement and scaring them so that they would fly away. I remember doing this in London one half term, when we were visiting my aunts who lived there (that was also the holiday where we saw the giant capybaras at London Zoo and fed chocolate buttons to squirrels in the park). We fought pigeons in Lincoln on our way to and from The Bail when we visited my grandparents, always following the same route, always visiting the same ice-cream shop, always being shown the hotel where our parents had had their wedding reception and always looking through the window of the museum which held the scale model of Lincoln cathedral. We fought pigeons in the park by the Eldon Square shopping centre in Newcastle, 12

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in between having our faces painted, me always a butterfly, him always Spiderman. Everywhere we went, pigeons feared us, and they had good reason. Whether we were Robin Hood and Maid Marion, Spiderman and Butterfly Girl, or whatever else we were playing at the time, we were the scariest pair of pigeon fighters there had ever been. When did the tables turn? These days, my brother lives in Denver, and I miss him a lot. We barely see each other, and when we do, we’re too busy for pigeon fighting. Now any pigeon fights are carried out on my own and are entirely accidental on my part, as I

walk slowly behind them on the pavement, trying to predict which way they will go so that I don’t pressure them into leaping up and making me cry out in an embarrassing way which draws the unwelcome attention of my fellow pedestrians. Last time I went to Lincoln, it seemed really small. Now that I live in London, pigeons are just another annoyance. I haven’t had my face painted in far too long. Being a grown up is hard. However, there’s one way of looking at it that cheers me up. Maybe, to pigeons, I am the lone Pigeon Warrior, the last woman standing, the pitiful remnant of the dark and terrible force which they used to fear above all others. They defeated my brother, but they couldn’t get me. Maybe the reason why you never see baby pigeons is because they’re all afraid of me (you’re welcome, humanity). Sometimes I even travel around on my wheeled pigeon destroyer. Pigeons look under their nests for me at night. As I walk overshadowed by my adult concerns, scattering pigeons in my wake, although I’m trembling inside, I am still defeating them. They’re more scared of me than I am of them, if I only knew it. It’s thinking things like this that make it safe to leave the house, even if my brother is on the other side of the world.

FOOTSTEPS IN THE SNOW ELEANOR WOOD

http://sounds.bl.uk/Environment/Weather/022M-WA09025XXXXX-0070V0

I suppose we have tattoos because we want to be more like snowflakes – unique, special, unlike any other. We can kid ourselves. My tattooist, Francisco, has the skin of someone who did not see snow until last winter. Nearly every inch of it is tattooed. He is from Brazil and saw grey London snow for the first time in December – a sight that delighted him beyond my comprehension. Not unrelatedly, he has a tiny sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of his nose that elevates his face from really nice looking to beautiful. It is not coincidental that Francisco is tattooing me today amid turmoil – to mark and erase all at once. Footsteps in the snow. Firmly planted, for me, myself, where only I can see them. He knows this instinctively and he looks after me; our conversation on the tattooist’s table is worth a year of therapy. I am so happy that he will always have been involved in my body, a part of this permanent reminder.

What a strange job – such responsibility and permanence. I wonder if he feels the weight of it when he goes home at night. I want to ask him, but we have had to stop our incessant talking because it is making me move around too much and he cannot work. It is hard for me to stay still. With no other distraction from the pain, I recite mantras in my head, force myself into a rhythm. Thefuturethefuturethefuture. DaddyyoubastardI’mthrough. DaddyyoubastardI’mthrough. (Like a train, that one.) Iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou. Above Francisco’s whirring gun: the sound of footsteps, crunching in the snow, where nobody will ever see them.

HALF SEAS OVER HANNAH PHILLIPS

The small sounds of the morning woke him. The rush and crackle, swelling and then diminishing, crisp, like breathing, but breathing only just. If anything else on the beach was making a noise, it was lost to the cold sea and the sky as he opened his eyes. The light was weak and the air metallic and dry after days of heavy rain. The curve of cold pebbles rose and fell beneath his spine. Tracks dragged into the stones by the hulls of fishing boats drew lines around his body, coming down from the town. He followed the marks to the water’s edge with his eyes, saw them converge where the dozens of dories had launched, the ruts now filled in small, whirling puddles by the wet lap of the sea. There were no gulls, no birds of any kind, and even the black fins of mackerel flashing out of the lagoon were silent. He raised his head. They had borrowed the lobster pots from Algie Thudd – as many pots as they thought their old skiff could manage – though they were rough cages patched together with old lead piping and more mending thread than net. After an evening in The Silent Woman of oyster pie, 14

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http://sounds.bl.uk/Environment/Soundscapes/022M-W1CDR0000635-3700V0

apples and several rounds, they made a slow path from Abbotsbury to the stony beach. The other fishermen wouldn’t start until just before dawn but Harry and Sid were going to get ahead of them, and get ahead. The sun was behind them, and over the curve of the beach he could see the black and blue points of hulls dipping and re-emerging over the surf. The boats were an hour out by his reckoning, maybe more. As the water sucked and soothed, a wave of sickness swept up Sid’s torso; a rush, and then a calm. He swallowed, breathed deeply. A yellow and white spark lying beside him was his hip flask, a few feet from his hand, reflecting the new light. He stretched his fingers, palm up to the sky. Harry had been lying still as stone on his other side, but he sat up suddenly and the crunching sound of his movement was like thunder in the still air. He was pale, but managed to stumble to the water’s edge before vomiting. Harry’s false teeth followed last night’s pie and were lost in the muck that combed the stones before the tide foamed and drew it back. He walked slowly back to Sid and planted face down, sinking an inch. The pull of moon and tide mean Chesil’s stones grow smaller towards the town, so from the size of the pebble in your palm at least you know where you are. The hump of Harry’s back, black in greasy moleskin breeks, was mirrored a few yards behind in the black curve of their up-turned skiff. The tarred hull was intact, god be thanked, and dry. They were all three of them perfectly dry: fishermen, fishermen’s skiff and flask. Storms had been flinging a salty mix of seawater and rain against the coast all week, making it hard to stay vertical if you walked too

far up Portland. But that night the clouds had rushed away, as if a hand had brushed them off the table, and the sea calmed. The Silent Woman was a racket with talk of nothing else. The storm had moved the lobsters closer to land and with all the churn the little buggers would trip right into the pots. There was a haul waiting in that sudden-calm water for the fishermen tomorrow. At market they go for any price you like – more than ten boats full of mackerel will ever fetch you. Only a fool would miss out. Sated and warm, Sid and Harry had called it their own, toasted the little pond just waiting for them and their borrowed pots. They had toasted how Algie Thudd would sit down for the first lobster supper with them, and offer them the use of his 50-foot setter next time. Toasted the fishy boys in their red jackets who didn’t know what was coming. And then toasted it all again. Harry was on his feet once more. He walked, unsteady on the shifting pebbles, towards the hull of the skiff and turned it over slowly until it righted and rocked with a crunch. The lobster pots were gone and it was empty apart from a peeler crab who swayed, unhappy in the sudden light, then picked across the stones towards the water. The sun was high now and beginning to warm the cool grey beach, but the water’s quiet movement was still the only sound. It dragged forward and backward. Sid thought of the day ahead, thought of the future. The creak of his chair, the clang of the stove’s iron hatch, the scratch of stale bread dipped in sugar and water. His bed. A beating from Algie Thudd, more than likely, and lobster on the menu at The Silent Woman for weeks to come. 44

WANT MORE SOUND? http://www.wirelesstheatrecompany.co.uk/ Browse and download radio plays of all genres http://sounds.bl.uk/Environment/Soundscapes The British Library’s huge collection of sound recordings, soundscapes and interviews http://audiogames.net/ Review, download and discuss audiogames http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/features/the-listening-project A collection of conversations gathered from across the UK ‘It’s surprising what you hear when you listen’ http://www.everydaylistening.com/ Collects inspiring and remarkable sound art and creative sound design projects.

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‘SICK CHIRPSE’ - AMEE CHRISTIAN This illustration was commissioned by sickchripse.com as a t-shirt design. For music reviews, events, articles and “the weirdness that accumulates in cyberspace” check out www.sickchirpse.com @sickchirpse 44

DANCING

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MAKING SOUND WAVES VISIBLE BY FABIAN OEFNER

COLORS 44

20 44

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he Swiss photographer Fabian Oefner created this astonishing series of images by placing coloured salt on a upturned speaker and then playing music through it. As the membrane of the speaker began to vibrate the salt illustrated the hidden movement of sound waves emerging from the speaker and built ‘a bridge between the acoustical and the visual world’. To capture the exact moment in which the pigments were lifted into the air a microphone was connected to the flash system. In this way every time the microphone picked up a sound it triggered the flash. You can see more images from the ‘Dancing Colors’ series as well as images of many other projects at www.fabianoefner.com

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WHERE ARE THE PICTURES

? I

f thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a box of reel-to-reel audio tapes gathering dust in your attic, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s possible you may own recordings of some of the thousands of radio programmes currently missing from the archives, or you may own that other rare survivor: an audio recording of a missing television programme. Before the advent of affordable video recorders the only way for viewers to record their

favourite television programmes was by using reel-to-reel audio tape recorders to record the sound from the TV. Viewers up and down the country positioned tape recorders next to the TV set and waited with their fingers hovering over the record button for their favourite programme to start. Extraneous noises plagued many of these recordings because the recorder’s microphone picked up all the sound in the room and not just the sound from the TV including the sound of the phone ringing, the dog barking and the viewer cursing under their breath. Every unwanted syllable was recorded for posterity. To avoid these interruptions some viewers wired the recorder directly into the TV set, so only the TV sound was recorded. Some recordings done this way are so good they’ve been used to repair damaged soundtracks on film prints of missing programmes returned from abroad or by private collectors. When affordable home video recording arrived many of these old audio tapes were either thrown out or filed away in cardboard boxes. What many people probably don’t realise is that their home-made recordings may now be the only extant record of some of the many thousands of programmes currently missing from the archives of the BBC and ITV. In the 1970s the BBC and ITV began purging their archives of old programmes, expensive master videotapes were wiped and reused for new programmes, old black and film prints were destroyed because the market for them had dried up with the arrival 26

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of colour television. Episodes of Z Cars, Dixon of Dock Green, Armchair Theatre The Avengers, Dr. Finlay’s Casebook and many, many more programmes were lost, possibly forever. There’s an ongoing search for missing television material, early video recordings, 16mm and 35mm film prints, home movies, either of TV crews at work on location, or in the studio, or attempts to record the picture off the TV by pointing a cine camera at the TV screen, photographs and audio recordings. Over the years a number of audio recordings of missing programmes have come to light, including episodes of Public Eye, starring Alfred Burke as down-at-heel private inquiry agent, Frank Marker; drama anthology series Play For Today and the science fiction anthology series Out of the Unknown. Audio recordings exist for all 106 missing episodes of Doctor Who - this is unique for a drama programme. Comedies tend to fair better than dramas in the audio recovery stakes, possibly because the episodes are usually shorter than most dramas, so more can fit on to each tape. There are audio recordings for missing episodes of Hancock’s Half Hour, Not Only... But Also, Till Death Us Do Part, The Likely Lads, Broaden Your Mind (the precursor to The Goodies starring Bill Oddie, Graeme Garden and Tim Brooke-Taylor) and two forerunners to Monty Python’s Flying Circus: Do Not Adjust Your Set and At Last the 1948 Show. On the documentary and factual front, there’s audio of the BBC’s moon landing

footage from 1969, This is Your Life and The Beatles appearance on Juke Box Jury in 1963. These recordings are now eagerly sort after by the BFI, who host the regular ‘Missing Believed Wiped’ events showcasing recently rediscovered television material. Kaleidoscope, a voluntary group devoted to the appreciation of archive television, run the lostshows.com website which lists many missing programmes. Not all programmes are listed on the website, so it is worth double checking. Kaleidoscope’s email address is post@ kaleidoscope.org.uk. After a lot of TLC to remove interference from family, pets and the ravages of time, we can at least hear the early television appearances of the Monty Python team, Tony Hancock, Peter Cook and The Beatles, even if the accompanying images remain AWOL. Listening to audio recordings of long gone TV programmes can feel like being permanently in the kitchen while the TV is on in the living room. The dialogue is sometimes unclear and action scenes can be reduced to anonymous sounds of walking and running, doors opening and closing, bangs, scrapes and screams. The listener

misses out on all the visual cues that help to tell the story: the sinister shadow falling across a doorway, a character’s nervously chain smoking, looks of love, looks of hate. Every arched eyebrow, curled lip or secret smile, every directorial flourish or comedian’s double-take or sight-gag are lost. The absence of images can also have its plus side, with only the vocal performances of the actors and the cues from sound effects and incidental music, the listener can dream up new pictures, cast the perfect actors to go with the voices, design the greatest sets in the world free of the budget and time limitations of the original productions. However most archive television enthusiasts prefer to stay faithful to the original. Some lovingly create reconstructions of missing programmes by combining the off-air soundtrack with any existing clips and photographs. While no substitute for the real thing, they do help us get one step closer to seeing how the original would have looked. So dig out that box of tapes, you may be able to restore a little of our television heritage and make archive television enthusiasts very happy indeed. CHRIS DUNN

“EVERY ARCHED EYEBROW, CURLED LIP OR SECRET SMILE, EVERY DIRECTORIAL FLOURISH OR COMEDIAN’S DOUBLETAKE OR SIGHT-GAG ARE LOST.”

The Lucky

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y Ladybird Delicious Handmade Bags

luckyladybirdcraft.co.uk

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WHAT WHAT!? Before radar was invented aircraft detection was still important business. All manor of acoustic hearing aids were used for early warning!

MISDIRECTION

A couple of years ago I received an e-mail from the headmaster of a school in England. He seemed to think I was someone called ‘Jane’.

Hi Jane Is there a chance these photos could go on the website any time soon? If you can’t, I can send them to JQ and she can! Many thanks JC

Hi JC. Sorry. don’t think I can put the photos on the website. Better try this JQ person.

No problem I have asked JQ person! Cheers JC

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Good morning How’s you? A request from Mark Hayes please. He is organising the new security lanyards (with photos) for all staff and would like, if possible, a disc with all the staff mug shots on. Do you have this from the photos used on our whose who board? And will they be tagged with their names? Thank you! Deena

This one wasn’t so easy to answer, but I gave it my best shot.

I replied to his e-mail with as much honesty and enthusiasm as I could muster.

He seemed to take it pretty well.

Earlier this year I received another e-mail from the school, this time from the registrar.

Good afternoon, How am I? Its hard to say really In the emotional continuum of life there are many, many fluctuations - at one moment or other I may be elated or miserable. We might take an average, but over how long a period? A week? A month? A year? Each is as arbitrary as the last, don’t you think? And that’s without venturing into the subconscious. Maybe I’m in a very bad way indeed, but just in complete denial of the fact. And perhaps your ‘bad’ is my average, maybe I should adjust my calibrations to your level before judging. To sum up then. I am undecided, and there may never be an answer Anyway, enough of these pleasantries, you asked about Mark Hayes. The stories I could tell you about Mark Hayes, and his requests, always the requests! How long has it been since I last spent a day without receiving an instruction from him to forward this or laminate that? Sometimes I feel like I was put on this Earth just to organise his files like a termite gnawing through stacks of Basildon Bond to satisfy some greedy queen somewhere. Is this all there is to

do. Deena, is this our purpose here? The forwarding of shiny plastic discs which one day will decompose as we will, their atoms consumed by the eventual death of our sun? Or perhaps humankind will reach other planets, perhaps this disc will be kept as an artifact in some distant galaxy millions of years from now, its digital contents deciphered by some hyper-evolved species. Who knows. Deena, who knows? Such things are out of our hands. All we can do is play our part and enjoy our time here I have discs here, yes, and images, many images. I even have names. But, my dear Deena, I’m terribly afraid that they won’t be what you want. The discs are the wrong colour, all mottled and beige, with chunks taken out. The images in some arcane format, apparently known only to an ageing hacker in San Francisco, so I am told. The names are, regretfully, all classified. I’m enclosing a picture of a kitten We will all be tagged with our names It is inevitable. I hope this information has been useful to you. If you, or Mark Hayes for that matter, ever need anything again, please feel free to drop me a line I will be here. waiting Your devoted servant, JM Errington.

Surprisingly, she seemed happy enough with my answer.

Well good afternoon I hope your week has started on a better note!!! So what juicy case have you been assigned too? I’m sure you are not you are at all worried or bothered about the photos but just to let you know that Chris has discovered Mark’s request and has phoned him to say leave well alone please!!! Chris is going to sort out in her own good time apparently... xx Deena

I wondered whether I should feel guilty for a little while, but the answer seemed to be ‘no’, so after a while I replied again, ratcheting the facetiousness up by yet another notch.

Deena It’s been two long weeks since I received your e-mail, a long time perhaps, you might think, but your question was a complex one, and answering it has taken a great deal of time and thought. You want answers, though, and answers you must have. What cases, then, have I been assigned to? In the end, after days of soul-searching and long nights of horlicks-fuelled soulstrangling, I came to an inescapable conclusion. No cases have been assigned to me. If I am to take you literally - and assume (foolhardy as this may be) that you don’t refer to some kind of metaphysical or spiritual “case” I have no understanding of - I find that my life and work involve nothing in the way of “cases” at all. Who knows, though, perhaps I’m deluded in this belief perhaps there are many cases here, and I’m just too blind to see them. Perhaps we can never know. Perhaps I should accept there is always the possibility of the essential unknowability of the unknown. You must thank Chris, thank her from the very depths of my heart. If she wasn’t there then, well, who knows what might have gone on. I don’t think you’d have wanted my photos - that’s one thing I can be sure of. Truly. Yours, JM Errington

She hasn’t replied to this one yet, and it’s been a couple of weeks now, but I’m a patient man, as I think I’ve demonstrated.

JAMES ERRINGTON 44

LOUD NOM! POPCORN BRITTLE

Cassiopeia

reetings, Cassiopeians (Cassiopeites?) For this issue’s vaguely-ontopic dish I bring you a tasty dessert with some auditory flare: Popcorn brittle. Noisy to make, and noisy to eat, hopefully this gluten-free sweet treat will be enough to make those among you who are nervous about making candy from scratch brave enough to take the plunge! The basic recipe is infinitely adaptable, and can be used as a base for any sort of nut or fruit brittle. If you don’t like honey, you can swap it for any other sort of lightly-coloured syrup (corn syrup, light syrup, maple syrup, I’m sure you get the idea.) All that matters is that you have some kind of liquid sugar alongside the crystallized kind. I’m not entirely sure about the science behind it, but I know it has something to do with the two different types of sugars blending to prevent large crystals from forming in the mixture. For this same reason you want to stir it as little as possible. Also, while boiling sugar is culinary napalm, since sugar is watersoluble, clean-up is a lot easier than you expect it to be.

1 CUP SUGAR ¼ CUP HONEY ½ TEASPOON SALT ½ CUP WATER 2 TABLESPOONS BUTTER 1 TEASPOON BICARBONATE OF SODA. 4 CUPS POPPED CORN

Preparation is key for any sort of brittle. Making any sort of candy is generally a process of doing a lot of standing around and staring with a flurry of activity right at the end. You want to be prepared for that bit, because you don’t want the sugar to burn. Line a large baking tray with parchment paper, lightly greased, ahead of time. Make popcorn either by using one microwaved bag of the plain stuff (while butter flavouring likely wouldn’t hurt, it’s always best to start with the basics before making whatever additions you like the next time around.) or make it on the stove. For stove-top popcorn, put about º cup of popcorn kernels in a large lidded pan or pot with a few tablespoons of vegetable oil. Put the heat on high, and shake your vessel across the element, keeping the kernels in motion. It will take a few minutes before anything happens, so don’t be discouraged. Make sure to keep the lid on tight. Once either the popcorn reaches the lid of your pot or the popping sound slows significantly, take it off the heat and leave it lidded until the popping sound has stopped for at least a minute. Using either method, you’ll likely have more popcorn than you need for the recipe, but a crunchy snack is always nice.

Mix in the butter and bicarbonate of soda (it will foam up a little, don’t worry, that’s normal) before folding in the popcorn. Fold to coat evenly. Dump onto you prepared tray, and using your wooden spoon spread it out to a nice even layer. Wait until completely cooled, and break into whatever size chunks you deem appropriate.

If you decide you like this, you can also add any sort of nut you like (just mix them in before the popcorn), or drizzle with chocolate (once you’ve spread it onto the prepared tray.) If you want to pretend this is anything other than a snack-like dessert, you can add dried fruit.

For the candy-making part, you’ll want to use the tallest pot you have, and a wooden spoon. Start by boiling together sugar, honey, salt and water over medium heat, stirring only occasionally until the solution has reached 300 degrees. If you don’t have a candy thermometer, then just drip samples of the sugar mix into ice cold water. If it forms little threads, you’re there.

RACHEL BACKA 44

THE SPOKEN WORD OWAIN PACIUSZKO And no emails would send, no texts would deliver, no phones would ring, no pens would write, no letter could post, no morse code, no telegrams, no walkie talkies. Nothing could get through, apart from standing near someone and saying the words out loud. There was panic, but its extent was unknown to those experiencing it. Fortunately, people asked one another; “Is your phone working? No, mine neither.” The sentence passed like a parcel in a party game from one person to the next, until it started to be understood that nothing was working. A couple had arranged to meet for dinner, but she was held up at work, she tried to send him a message, she tried to phone the restaurant, but she could not reach anybody, and finally she had to tell her boss that she could not stay late that evening as she had to meet her husband for dinner, and she was allowed to leave, and she hurried through the streets, finally explaining the situation to her husband and they had a marvellous dinner. A pizza shop stood in silence wondering why, on a Friday night, the phone was not ringing with orders, as it often tended to do at this hour, and what they would do if no pizzas had to be cooked, until, a short time had passed, and people began walking into the shop and 36

Cassiopeia

making their requests, promising to come back in a minute to pick up the piping hot pizza and carry it home. Clicking incessantly on the computer’s icon the teenager could not understand why his laptop would not connect to the internet, so the following day he went to the shop and bought the new record he was looking forward to from a person behind a counter who smiled and they talked about their respective problems with technology and then they spoke about their shared interest in that band, how the new single was a bit disappointing but they still had optimism for the full album. Other shoppers weren’t so fortunate, as their credit cards could not connect wirelessly with their banks, so their purchases would not go through. Outside the banks the queues snaked around the street, people tirelessly arguing with the tellers, ultimately staggering cautiously outside with their life savings stuffed into holdalls. On a residential street a fire burned, the family stood outside, but were soon taken into a neighbour’s for cups of tea, and a man jumped in his car and drove to the fire station to get help, whilst other neighbours brought out fire extinguishers from their garages and kitchens doing their best to tackle the blaze.

Shop keepers stood defiantly against opportunistic thieves who had felt the lack of telephones would make the high street an easy target, but policemen walked the beat with senses heightened, trying to compensate for their lack of radios, and unable to rally their friends, the thieves soon retreated. Commuters on trains and buses unable to busy themselves with their social media feeds found themselves looking around for gossip, they found conversation in the company of strangers, whilst others brought books from neglected shelves and found themselves laughing or crying on a journey that had become so routine and familiar. A young man, fed up with his job, tried to phone in sick, but could not get through, nor could he email, and he hoped that during the night the building that been destroyed in some sort of catastrophe and he would never have to go back there again. But, with very little alternative, he got dressed, made for the door and began his commute into work. Traders in stock markets stood with their mouths agape and watched blank boards wondering where the strings of numbers and letters that governed their days had disappeared to. Some laughed and clapped one another on the back at the ludicrous situation, whilst others wrenched clods of hair from their own heads in unwitting mania. There were no love letters and no suicide notes, no final notices or payment’s due, no get well soons or happy birthdays, not unless you told them so yourself. At first people found the words in frustrated fits and starts, awkwardly interacting with one another, devoid of a means to direct their passive aggression into snide texts, tweets and emails, people found their inner monologues trickling out as mutterings, asides and rolled eyes. But, soon, people found the means to

be civil, after one too many scuffles, slanging matches, circular arguments over nothing, they realised that polite words had both a calming and immediate effect. Besides, people’s ears weren’t plugged by songs, shows, news, stories. It meant that couples sat at home, staring at a blank box, thumbing through blank books, spinning empty records and wondering what to do. Then she would pick up her guitar, and he would sit at the piano, it would be uncomfortable at first, those awkward notes and chords, they didn’t gel, but they stumbled their way along, nervous titters relaxing into easy giggles. Parents found their minds challenged by the demands of their children, tucked awkwardly and impatiently between sheets, asking for a bedtime story. At first the words tripped and fell, but soon they found their legs, running, sprinting and then taking flight. Mother and father surprised by the worlds inside of them, and reinvigorated by the looks of wonder and smiles on their children’s faces. Without radios, cds and mp3s people stopped to listen to the busker, they went to their local bar for a gig, and they told them, the performers, how they enjoyed the music and asked when they would be playing next. And people told tales and jokes, they broke bad news and cried in one another’s arms, they complimented and criticised, they wooed and they booed, thoughts flowed freely, and whilst we could not all agree, we tried our best to articulate things, with passion, with intelligence, we wanted to debate, to reason, to understand. Until the following day, when a text message, long since delayed, finally made its way to someone’s mobile phone, and the world was rebooted and connected again, and the man sent a text back to his girlfriend saying; ‘Sorry babez, fink we shld end it X’. 44

SHADES OF DOOM

THE GIFT OF SOUND AND VISION

ideo gaming might seem like a world that’s inaccessible to the blind and visually impaired, but since the days of text adventures text-to-speech (TTS) software has been used to help sightless users navigate an otherwise visual medium. As video game technology has advanced, however, game developers have been tackling the challenge of how to convert action, adventure and puzzle games into sound-only games. Creative solutions involving sound effects, volume, pitch, music and narration have been used to create a whole range of games, many of which are available to play or download for free online. In the past audio games have been the reserve of amateur and smallscale game developers but the medium is increasingly being embraced by sound artists and experimental mobile game developers.

The following audio games are all available to play for free via audiogames.net 38

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GMA Games 2001 http://www.gmagames.com/sod.html

No, nothing to do with Shades of Grey, but rather an audio adaptation of the much-loved ‘Doom’ video game franchise. As a player of ‘Shades of Doom’ you wander the corridors and rooms of an abandoned scientific facility collecting objects and defending yourself against monsters. So far so familiar, but with only sound to guide you ‘Shades of Doom’ is extremely difficult to play. Before beginning the game I recommend you pick your way through the menu systems and try your best to memorise the various sound effects that indicate you are approaching objects, doors, walls and monsters. Pitch and volume all play a part in guiding you through the landscape, but even with frequent reference to the audio clues I quickly got disorientated and lost. It’s clear from ‘Shades of Doom’ that voice-over talent is the equivalent of graphics in an audio game. A good storyteller can immerse you in the imagined world, but a poor one can leave you confused, disinterested or puzzled about whether to press ‘m’ or ‘n’ to proceed. Sadly ‘Shades of Doom’ falls into this second category. If you still want to play it prepare for the ‘thud’ of your character walking into a wall to become a familiar sound.

3D SNAKE

AIRIK THE CLERIC

P-B Games 2004 http://audiogames.net/db.php?id=3dsnake

Pawloski games 2011 http://breakerboxgames.webs.com/

Another audio adaptation, this time of the classic arcade game ‘snake’ which, if you’ve never played it, involves directing a snake around a small board trying to collect fruit and avoid hitting the walls. ‘3D Snake’ simply and effectively mimics the snake formula in sound, with fruit represented by a ‘ping’ sound and the edges of the board by the sound of rushing wind. The increase in volume of either of these sounds as you move around tells you whether you’re moving in the right direction. The effect of the rushing wind sound is that the board sounds like it’s suspended in the air, this provides quite an immersive gaming experience and gives credence to the claim that the game is ‘3D’. Genuinely fun to play a nice simple introduction to audio gaming.

I’ve only played the demo version of Airik (available to download for free at the address above) but I was completely charmed by it. A full scale fantasy adventure game, somewhere between Zelda and a text adventure, Airik is a ‘sightless warrior apprentice’ from the fantasy kingdom of Aunegauv. Accompanied by a wisecracking robot called Scout you can explore the world around you, meet characters, complete quests and collect crystals to earn extra powers. Not only is the game highly accessible for both sighted and sightless warriors it’s also very rich and immersive with detailed soundscapes and good quality voice acting. There’s no need to memorise any particular sounds in order to navigate effectively either, key objects will either be named for you by Scout or will sound as you would expect them to (for example if you head towards the sound of a waterfall you are likely to go for a swim). Unlike ‘Shades of Doom’ Airik is also very forgiving in terms of navigation, if you move towards an area labelled ‘door’ you’re likely to find it rather than hit the wall next to it. As accessible as it is Airik the Cleric isn’t always easy. The full version features multiple locations, mini games and challenging boss fights which require you to master a number of special moves. The full game costs £14.99 and there is now a sequel in development, due to be released later in 2013.

If none of the above take your fancy all the following games are also listed by audiogames.net ● FUTURE BOY! Interactive audio comic about a superhero http://www. generalcoffee.com/ futureboy/about.html ● TOMBHUNTER, MYSTERIES OF THE ANCIENTS A sound only action game inspired by the Tomb Raider series http://www. usagamesinteractive. com/products.php

● BEACH VOLLEYBALL – apparently a “full audio simulation of the sport of volleyball” http://vipgameszone. com/bv/bv.php ● DARK ROOM SEX GAME - a “multiplayer, erotic rhythm game without any visuals”. No, seriously. http://www.copenhagen gamecollective.org/ projects/dark-room-sexgame/

KATIE DAVIES 44

EAVESDROPPING W

e’re told it isn’t polite to eavesdrop, but sometimes other people’s conversations are too interesting to resist listening in on. We asked for examples of overheard conversations on the Cassiopeia Facebook page (facebook.com/CassiopeiaMag) . Here are some of the best we received.

LAURA - WORCESTER Heard on an escalator in Montreal “And thirdly, why are you an ugly hermaphrodite?”

ALISON - TORONTO Heard outside an ethical fashion boutique “Oh, it’s ethical. I hate ethical things.”

JADE - BRISTOL Heard in a local shop Daughter: “Mummy, can we have pizza?” Mum notices pizzas are reduced and grabs two or three Daughter: “Now don’t be greedy, Mummy...”

SARAH - YORK Heard at a bus stop “It’s just like home except you can’t go out and you can’t score” A teenage boy re: prison

JESSICA - YORK Heard in Barcelona “Well of course we *knew* he was a convicted felon...”

40 44

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BEN - LONDON Heard in a branch of Game “This is a loser shop, isn’t it?”

SS IO PE IA CA

‘OVERHEARDS’ BY SARAH PEPLOE

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