RMHH Blogs

Abstract: This study explores various uses of virtual reality goggles in conjunction with consumer level items: color cameras, video effects, luminance keying and videotape, in an effort to ascertain what is feasible at the present time regarding consumer and industrial applications. As a measure toward eventual home theater display prospects, the viability of keying video into a see-through head-mounted display to form a virtual, wall-sized television will be determined. Another portion of the research will attempt to communicate aspects of the psychedelic experience into electronic form.

“When we apply the power of networking to the VR world, the potential for stretching the limits of human abilities becomes very powerful.” —Jaron Lanier

Introduction

Virtual Reality (VR), its “newer” cousin Augmented Reality (AR), Enhanced Reality (ER), Simulated Environments (SE), Myron Krueger’s Artificial Reality and other terms each attempt to describe unique sets of experiences and phenomenon that promise to radically alter the process of human communication. It is my belief that these various disciplines will continue evolving parallel with related technologies until a critical mass is achieved, resulting in a coalescence of unprecedented magnitude, which I have termed Ultimate Reality, in deference to Ivan Sutherland’s pioneering efforts described in The Ultimate Display.

Abstract: This study explores various uses of virtual reality goggles in conjunction with consumer level items: color cameras, video effects, luminance keying and videotape, in an effort to ascertain what is feasible at the present time regarding consumer and industrial applications. As a measure toward eventual home theater display prospects, the viability of keying video into a see-through head-mounted display to form a virtual, wall-sized television will be determined. Another portion of the research will attempt to communicate aspects of the psychedelic experience into electronic form.

“When we apply the power of networking to the VR world, the potential for stretching the limits of human abilities becomes very powerful.” —Jaron Lanier

Introduction

Virtual Reality (VR), its “newer” cousin Augmented Reality (AR), Enhanced Reality (ER), Simulated Environments (SE), Myron Krueger’s Artificial Reality and other terms each attempt to describe unique sets of experiences and phenomenon that promise to radically alter the process of human communication. It is my belief that these various disciplines will continue evolving parallel with related technologies until a critical mass is achieved, resulting in a coalescence of unprecedented magnitude, which I have termed Ultimate Reality, in deference to Ivan Sutherland’s pioneering efforts described in The Ultimate Display.

“You got the shit, Nigga?”

“Motherfucker, I got the shit. You got my money?”

“Twenty G’s.”

“We said twenty-two.”

“So you dip a few ounces.”

“Yeah, aight. We do this at my spot.”

“Fuck that shit. Muhfuckin Pirus would do me on sight, money or not.”

“I tole you that gang shit was weak. Entangling alliances and shit. Look at me. I stayed solo, and I’m doin keys.”

“I’m doin keys.”

“You WANT to do keys. But you also got motherfuckers who don’t know you that want to kill you. My game is tight. Anyway, Im’a do this for you. Come to the parking garage on Slausen tonight at eleven.”

“Crenshaw?”

“Don’t sweat it, it’s safe. I do it all the time.”

“Aight. “

“And I know you ain’t even thinkin ’bout bringin somebody…”

“No, I wasn’t”

“Aight, then. I’II see you at eleven. Don’t fuck me.”

He hung up the telephone and smiled an evil smirk. Stupid fuckin kid. He couldn’t believe how easy it was. Literally candy from babies. But in this case the candy was Columbian crack or shopping bags full of small bills.

“You got the shit, Nigga?”

“Motherfucker, I got the shit. You got my money?”

“Twenty G’s.”

“We said twenty-two.”

“So you dip a few ounces.”

“Yeah, aight. We do this at my spot.”

“Fuck that shit. Muhfuckin Pirus would do me on sight, money or not.”

“I tole you that gang shit was weak. Entangling alliances and shit. Look at me. I stayed solo, and I’m doin keys.”

“I’m doin keys.”

“You WANT to do keys. But you also got motherfuckers who don’t know you that want to kill you. My game is tight. Anyway, Im’a do this for you. Come to the parking garage on Slausen tonight at eleven.”

“Crenshaw?”

“Don’t sweat it, it’s safe. I do it all the time.”

“Aight. “

“And I know you ain’t even thinkin ’bout bringin somebody…”

“No, I wasn’t”

“Aight, then. I’II see you at eleven. Don’t fuck me.”

He hung up the telephone and smiled an evil smirk. Stupid fuckin kid. He couldn’t believe how easy it was. Literally candy from babies. But in this case the candy was Columbian crack or shopping bags full of small bills.

“Write.” she said.

“Write?” he asked.

“Right . “

And write he did. The words couldn’t have held more meaning if they had appeared on a stone tablet presented by a wizened old man who said “Yes, I’m fucking Moses. Write, goddamn it!”

If he could (reach? affect? please?) her by writing, then he would do just that. He was very apprehensive about the whole thing. He knew he wielded a pen like a switchblade, and switchblades rarely pleased anyone but the person who held it. Still, he had little to lose. If she didn’t care, then nothing could hurt her. If she did care, then she would understand that he didn’t harbor any malice towards her, and would never hurt her intentionally. She kept her real thoughts and feelings so hidden from him he never knew how she felt anyway. Not entirely true: she had no problem expressing displeasure with him.

Those were the last words she had ever spoken to him. He didn’t return to work the next day, and she didn’t call. He expected that. He knew once he quit, he would never see her again. That was why he held on as long as he did. He preferred a world with her in it to one without her, no matter how much it hurt.

“Write.” she said.

“Write?” he asked.

“Right . “

And write he did. The words couldn’t have held more meaning if they had appeared on a stone tablet presented by a wizened old man who said “Yes, I’m fucking Moses. Write, goddamn it!”

If he could (reach? affect? please?) her by writing, then he would do just that. He was very apprehensive about the whole thing. He knew he wielded a pen like a switchblade, and switchblades rarely pleased anyone but the person who held it. Still, he had little to lose. If she didn’t care, then nothing could hurt her. If she did care, then she would understand that he didn’t harbor any malice towards her, and would never hurt her intentionally. She kept her real thoughts and feelings so hidden from him he never knew how she felt anyway. Not entirely true: she had no problem expressing displeasure with him.

Those were the last words she had ever spoken to him. He didn’t return to work the next day, and she didn’t call. He expected that. He knew once he quit, he would never see her again. That was why he held on as long as he did. He preferred a world with her in it to one without her, no matter how much it hurt.

I was born the sickly, premature child of nameless drug addicts. No, not really. But it makes a point about how people will believe almost anything you tell them. More on that later.

My mother’s name was Denise Kohan. Apparently, my father’s name was Danny Toepper. At some point, they split up, and she married Johnny Christie, who adopted me as his own. Legally, anyway.

Along the way, they had two more kids, John (the third, his grandfather being the first), and Heather. I love my siblings dearly, although I don’t see any of my family much.

We lived up north, in Illinois, for the most part. One of my earliest memories was coming home from the hospital. Maybe it was when John III was born? Johnny carried us on his shoulders, the snow was so deep.

Anyway, I do seem to remember the time before they were born. We’re fairly close in age, so this is all questionable. But I do seem to remember being alone, and watching a lot of Sesame Street, Electric Company and Spider-man. This is how I learned to read, basically.

I was born the sickly, premature child of nameless drug addicts. No, not really. But it makes a point about how people will believe almost anything you tell them. More on that later.

My mother’s name was Denise Kohan. Apparently, my father’s name was Danny Toepper. At some point, they split up, and she married Johnny Christie, who adopted me as his own. Legally, anyway.

Along the way, they had two more kids, John (the third, his grandfather being the first), and Heather. I love my siblings dearly, although I don’t see any of my family much.

We lived up north, in Illinois, for the most part. One of my earliest memories was coming home from the hospital. Maybe it was when John III was born? Johnny carried us on his shoulders, the snow was so deep.

Anyway, I do seem to remember the time before they were born. We’re fairly close in age, so this is all questionable. But I do seem to remember being alone, and watching a lot of Sesame Street, Electric Company and Spider-man. This is how I learned to read, basically.