Day 3 The Cut-up Technique, Part One -- The Story and the Cut

 

10/3/23 9:27 AM

 Day 3

Write a story or random phrases that come to mind and then use the cut-up technique to come up with some song lyrics. The cut-up method, made famous by David Bowie and others, includes cutting up words from sentences and phrases and then rearranging them to come up with unique lyrics.

 

This method was developed before word processors came into being, so it was done with paper, pen and scissors. I am thinking of employing a variety of different methods to see which one works best for me. "Cut and paste" is a feature on all computers and word processing programs, and this might be helpful. There are also "cut-up generators," computer programs which--well, I don't know what they do exactly, but I'll find out here in a minute. 

I'll post the finished product, but additionally, I'm going to include some of the process notes. Sound fun? Too bad, I'm doing it anyway!

 

 

Here's the story part, before the cut-up:

There was a boy who, despite his infirmities, decided to visit the canals in Venice. Venice, California, that is, not the real one. The boy was a cripple, braces on his legs and also on his face. He was a strange kid in some respects, fond of snakes and spiders. In other ways, he was quite a conventional boy who liked milk shakes and rock and roll. He was unsure about girls, dreaming of skateboards and swimming pools. 

He set out walking, and he didn't have far to go. Just one town over, Santa Monica, was his home. He was allowed to use the bike path until he got to the city limit sign, by the jetty which was the last remaining evidence of POP, the famous seaside amusement park from the 60s, now demolished, its strewn wreckage long since eroded by the sea. 

He was supposed to stop before he ever saw a juggler or street merchant, but the siren call of the south, proved too much on this day. After a moment's thought, he placed one foot firmly on the other side of the imaginary line that separated bourgeoisie from the beggar. Fun and frolic awaited just beyond. 

Rollerskating bikini clad blondes, with sunbleached hair, and skin, baked to golden brown perfection, flew past him, some skating backward, solo artists, carving out a flowing script of motion, others, in loose formation, knotting up in bunches along the crowded thoroughfare. 

He hadn't gotten far when one of these  crashed into him, bumping him sideways onto the sand. She whirled to a stop and looked down at him. He looked up at her, a little fearful. He didn't know what to say. 

She broke the awkward silence. "Hello. My name is Stacey. Sorry I crashed into you."

"I'm not," he said. "My name is Phobos. I'm pleased to meet you."

It got awkward again, and Stacey was about to turn and rejoin her group. She was a little leery of someone named after one of the twin moons of Mars, but her curiosity got the better of her.

"Where is your brother?" she asked. 

"How did you know?" he asked. He was surprised at her depth. Most people just laughed at him. 

His name, his braces and his ungraceful gait were easy targets for the inevitable taunts from his peers: "Brace face! Humpty Dumpty!" or "Go away, loser! Lame-o!" They would have called him "Forrest Gimp," but the movie hadn't come out yet.

His black metal leg irons gave them the creeps. Never a hello. No one had ever apologized to him for anything, why should they? He was the strange one. He was un-hip.  With his gingham shirts, Bermuda shorts and black socks, he was the picture of anti-style. 

The way Stacey looked at him was unlike anything in his experience. There was not a trace of pity in her eyes.  It was like he was a completely normal boy, not pathetic at all. He didn't know what to think. 

She helped him to his feet, although he could have managed on his own. He was a proud boy. Not like that. Not with all caps. He wasn't a fascist. He was just a kid with some challenges, which he had learned to deal with long ago. 

"Let's go," she said, and as they proceeded down the bike path, they spoke of many things. 

That's the end of the story. Nothing happened, but it was a nice day. 

Here's what some program generated, rearranging my words into a wall of random words and phrases. I picked the least random setting, as the more random ones tended to be useless, producing only gibberish. I don't think this really qualifies as a cut-up program, really. It doesn't really show you the cuts. It merely moves words around willy-nilly, chopping up phrases with about as much conscious thought as a food processor.

Results

bourgeoisie from the beggar. fun and frolic awaited just beyond. siren call of the south, proved too much on this liked milk shakes and rock and roll. he was unsure of the story. nothing happened, but it was a nice on the other side of the imaginary line that separated solo artists, carving out a flowing script of motion, others, in other ways, he was quite a conventional boy who to a stop and looked down at him. he looked was the strange one. he was un-hip. with his gingham awkward again, and Stacey was about to turn and rejoin strange kid in some respects, fond of snakes and spiders. to say. she broke the awkward silence. "hello. my name Dumpty!" or "Go away, loser! Lame-o!" his metal leg irons what to think. she helped him to his feet, although pity in her eyes. it was like he was a he could have managed on his own. he was a day. after a moment's thought, he placed one foot firmly to golden brown perfection, flew past him. some skating backward, his legs but also on his face. he was a the real one. the boy was a cripple, braces on "my name is Phobos. i'm pleased to meet you." it got rollerskating bikini clad blondes, with sun-bleached hair and skin baked is stacey. sorry I crashed into you." "I'm not," he said. ever apologized to him for anything, why should they? he curiosity got the better of her. "Where is your brother?" she up at her, a little fearful. he didn't know what completely normal boy, not pathetic at all. he didn't know he ever saw a juggler or street merchant, but the name, his braces and his ungraceful gait were easy targets into him, bumping him sideways onto the sand. she whirled of anti-style. the way Stacey looked at him was unlike one town over, Santa Monica, was his home. he was anything in his experience. but the movie hadn't come out yet there was not a trace of bike path, they spoke of many things. that's the end challenges, which he had learned to deal with long ago. proud boy. not like that. not with all caps. he about girls, dreaming of skateboards and swimming pools. he set her group. she was a little leery of someone named asked. "how did you know?" he asked. he was surprised after one of the twin moons of mars, but her from the 60s, now demolished, its strewn wreckage long since the city limit sign, by the jetty which was the at her depth. most people just laughed at him. his wasn't a fascist. he was just a kid with some for the inevitable taunts from his peers: "Brace Face! They would have called him Forrest Gump, .Humpty allowed to use the bike path until he got to last remaining evidence of pop, the famous seaside amusement park thoroughfare. he hadn't gotten far when one of these crashed gave them the creeps. never a hello. no one had out walking, and he didn't have far to go. just there was a boy who, despite his infirmities, decided to day. visit the canals in Venice. Venice, California, that is, not in loose formation, knotting up in bunches along the crowded eroded by the sea. he was supposed to stop before shirts, Bermuda shorts and black socks, he was the picture "let's go," she said, and as they proceeded down the

 

 

 

That would constitute the cut-up phase of the process. I personally believe I could do a better job separating the phrases from one another. So here's my preliminary version of the cut-up:

There was a boy who, 

despite his infirmities, 

decided to visit the canals

in Venice. 

Venice, California, that is, 

not the real one. 

The boy was a cripple, 

braces on his legs but also 

on his face. 

He was a strange kid 

in some respects, 

fond of snakes and spiders. 

In other ways, he was 

quite a conventional boy 

who 

liked milk shakes and rock and roll. 

He was unsure about girls, 

dreaming of 

skateboards and swimming pools. 

He set out walking, and 

he didn't have far to go. 

Just one town over, 

Santa Monica, 

was his home. 

He was allowed to use the bike path 

until he got to the city limit sign, 

by the jetty which was 

the last remaining evidence of POP, 

the famous seaside amusement park 

from the 60s, 

now demolished, 

its strewn wreckage 

long since eroded by the sea. 

He was supposed to stop 

before he ever saw a 

juggler or street merchant, 

but the siren call of the south, 

proved too much on this day. 

After a moment's thought, 

he placed one foot firmly 

on the other side of the imaginary line 

that separated 

bourgeoisie from the beggar. 

Fun and frolic awaited just beyond. 

Rollerskating bikini clad blondes, 

with sunbleached hair, 

and 

skin baked to golden brown perfection, 

flew past him. 

some skating backward, 

solo artists, 

carving out a flowing script of motion, 

others, 

in loose formation, 

knotting up in bunches 

along the crowded thoroughfare. 

He hadn't gotten far when 

one of these 

Malibu Barbies 

crashed into him, 

bumping him sideways 

onto the sand. 

She whirled to a stop and

looked down at him. 

He looked up at her, 

a little fearful. 

He didn't know what to say.

She broke the awkward silence. 

"Hello. My name is Stacey. 

Sorry I crashed into you."

"I'm not," he said. 

"My name is Phobos. 

I'm pleased to meet you." 

It got awkward again, and

Stacey was about to turn and 

rejoin her group. 

She was a little leery of 

someone named after one of the twin moons of Mars, 

but her curiosity got the better of her. 

"Where is your brother?" she asked.

"How did you know?" 

he asked. 

He was surprised at her depth. 

Most people just laughed

at him.

His name, 

his braces 

and 

his ungraceful, ungainly gait 

were 

easy targets 

for the inevitable 

taunts from his peers: 

"Brace face! 

Humpty Dumpty!" 

or 

"Go away, loser! Lame-o!"

His metal leg irons gave them the creeps. 

Never a hello. 

No one had ever apologized to him for anything, 

why should they? 

He was the strange one.

 He was un-hip.  

With his gingham shirts, 

Bermuda shorts and 

black socks, 

he was the picture of anti-style. 

The way Stacey looked at him was 

unlike anything in his experience. 

There was not a trace of 

pity in her eyes.  

It was like 

he was a completely 

normal boy, 

not pathetic at all. 

He didn't know what to think. 

She helped him to his feet, 

although 

he could have managed on his own. 

He was a proud boy. 

Not like that. 

Not with all caps. 

He wasn't a fascist. 

He was just a kid

with some challenges, 

which he had learned to deal with

long ago.

"Let's go," she said, 

and 

as they proceeded down the bike path, 

they spoke of many things. 

That's the end of the story. 

Nothing happened, 

but 

it was a nice day. 

I like my cuts better. I think there are a few lines in there that I might be able to reconfigure, some salvageable bits. The story is shit. Too long, it goes nowhere. It is just bland, unthought-out dribble. Churning out this kind of muck is easy. The hard part comes next: the paste-up. 

 

I will have to take a break and eat something, as I will need a functioning brain for this part of the process. Magic may be involved. Stay tuned for the next post, ETA TBA.