#misrecognition

ASCII visualiser — study #01

Built a browser visualiser that speaks in glyphs instead of bars. ASCII as coded language → misrecognition → APD. Spacebar swaps the symbol on beat; keys punch the signal (I invert, G glitch burst, E edge-stretch, S stutter, N noise surge, B blackout, Z/X zoom, H heavy smear). Everything is grayscale, photocopy-crushed, and a little wrong.

This clip uses Emptyset’s Fragment as the motion reference. Next: feed signal // noise stems through this, then back out through The Interpreter — CRTs, waveform/oscilloscope, VHS and Hi-8 — for another round of recursive distortion until the caption becomes the sound.

Try it out: https://processzine.org/visualiser

REWIND TEST // signal path check (RX-150A + RD-15F)

Short clip in this post: the counter / ticker counting down as I rewind signal // NOISE back through the deck — time running in reverse, information rethreading itself.

Stills: vintage Rotel stack doing what it was built for:

Rotel RX-150A (amp / tuner)

Rotel RD-15F (tape deck)

signal // NOISE cassette in the window like a tiny monochrome title card: “DSP • signal // NOISE”

Dolby System badge sitting there like a quiet joke about “cleaning up” a signal that was never clean to begin with.

This is me quality-checking the test run of cassettes (as best I can with my hearing) — not “is it perfect?”, more “does the artefact behave?”: level, balance, dropouts, any obvious faults… and the more subtle question: does it still feel like the same machine when it comes back out?

Also: I’ve now got the Avantree Audikast 3 (Bluetooth 5.3 transmitter) hooked up to the amp so I can stream the tape output straight to my CI/HA. Analogue tape → vintage amp → Bluetooth → prosthetic hearing. A whole relay chain of translation layers… which, honestly, is basically the album’s thesis in miniature.

Time: 01:03 AM

Location: My bed, where silence now lives

Mood: Ache wrapped in ritual

We kept playing. He kept misgendering me. And I kept letting it happen.

It became a daily ritual—the second I got home from work, we were online. At first, it was just games. Then it was staying up until morning.

Then it was less about the games and more about the conversations. The laughter. The softness. The way he made me feel like I was someone.

It’s been a week. No calls. No messages. Just silence.

At this time, we’d be deep in conversation. Now I lie in bed, typing this, missing him. Missing the way he spoke to me like I mattered. Missing the way I felt when I forgot to be afraid. He still hasn’t messaged me.

I get it. He came in guns blazing—affectionate, caring, kind. And I got scared.

Scared of falling for a guy who thinks I’m a girl.

Scared of being the exception he didn’t sign up for.

Scared of ruining something that felt good with a truth that felt dangerous.

We got close. He trusted me with something he hadn’t told anyone. I was his confidant.