Day 6
I am happy to be back on the ocean. The smooth up and down motion of the waves calms my trembling hands. The current has carried me west and the sun has traversed the sky above me while I sit here and wait.

I miss my home in London. I miss the English. I miss Providence. I miss my brother. How could all of this have happened to me? How am I so cursed as to have lost everything?

I should not dwell on the past. I should look forward to the future with hope. That is what I have always done. But when my future is cursed, I would rather not think of it, but instead the idyllic scenes of my childhood.

Day 7
[Half of the page is torn out. The remaining half is filled with bloody scratches and marks.]

Day 8
I can see land now, but I do not possess any hope for the future, on land or on sea. I merely accept my curse. If I am branded a traitor because I cannot control my actions any more than the marionette, then so be it.

If only there were a way to escape, to make up for what I have done. For what I will soon do. Damn that voodoo witch! I wish I could with my ink blot out her existence and free myself.

Shortly I will reach land. I will reveal all of my sins when I am returned.

[Editor's Note: This is part of a series of entries taken from a worn journal that was found in a box of mostly worthless trinkets bought at an estate sale years ago. While most of the writing is legible, some of the ink has faded and a few pages are missing. Sam has taken the liberty of filling in any gaps. ]

Writing a song isn’t hard. Anyone can write a song - you’ve probably already started in the back of your head and you might not even know it - but, not everyone can write a good song. With enough effort, a good song can be worked into a great song. There are much fewer great songs compared to all the songs in the world, which probably grow at an exponential rate, with bad songs making little baby bad songs. But where does that song writing stop? Can a musician take a great song a re-work it until it’s moved back into the ‘good’ category?

I would argue that musicians need to stop and get a set of trusted outside options that will be brutal enough to provide criticism in both improving music but also to stop them and kick them out of the studio once they have a great song. The producer of an album may provide this extra insight to the songwriter or musicians. Some producers even have the reputation of working with a band to take good songs and make them great and cut them off once they reach the great mark. But the question remains: How long should a writer work on good songs?

At what point does the song stop being a “new” song and become a “old” song that’s been killed by the tinkering and tediousness over the years? When does a song stop being fresh? If it’s not an “instant classic” that stays fresh for months and years to come, can an unreleased song lose it’s favor in the eyes of the fanbase and possibly the songwriter?

I’ve been over the past few months working on my portrait photography and one of the hardest lessons I’ve learned is how to get people to smile like they mean it.  Even if they are there for the purpose of being photographed, when you tell them to say “cheese” or “smile” a forced, strained expression spreads over their face.   Are they walking through mud or did someone just take their picture?  Could there be a way to get these stick-in-the-mud pod-people to lighten up and smile like they mean it?  Yes.

The grand secret to getting people to smile like they mean it, is to put the camera down, out of their point of view and talk with your new friend.  Talk with them, about them: their favorite movies, the best joke they’ve ever heard, the best dessert they’ve ever eaten.   This shouldn’t be an interrogation, it should be a conversation where you are trying to get them to laugh out loud and break their “reserved” character.  Once they’ve started to smile, even at the smallest hint of a tiny grin, bring the camera back into the mix and start shooting.  Be warned, some people can’t help but grin once they start having a good time.

As my mind clears, I am beginning to piece together the events of the previous night. I will explain, to the best of my ability, what occurred. I entrust my sanity to the reader, hoping not to be condemned, but not expecting forgiveness.

Yesterday, I was sitting in the sand at the edge of the trees on the side of the island where I landed. The sun had sunk into the waves, illuminating the clouds above with red and pink rays. I was thinking about my unfortunate situation, my squandered fortune and lost love, and the night slowly stole the light from the earth. Then I heard noises from the jungle behind me. Startled, I turned around and saw lights in the jungle. They wavered and danced up the steep the mountain side, forming a flickering tail as they moved. For a moment I was entranced, then realized the lights were torches.

I raced into the jungle toward the lights, making quick progress in my frantic state. I soon approached the men carrying the torches, who were nearing the top of a ridge. I thought that soon I would be off the wretched isle and began to shout, “Hello there! Please, help me! I am alive!” Visions of my home and my beloved began to fill my head and I became giddy with joy as I ran toward the lights.

I stumbled into a clearing in the jungle and immediately found myself surrounded by swords. I stopped shouting. The torch light danced back and forth in the reflection of each of the nine shiny steel blades, all pointed at me. I saw that the men behind the swords were Spanish and Portuguese, and I knew from their dress that all were all high-ranking officers. I held my breath in fear that they would recognize me.

The men started to glance back and forth. Then their leader, who I knew to be Don Melchor de Aguilera, began to speak, his rich baritone voice emanating from beneath his dark mustache.

“I will give you a choice: you may choose life, or you may choose death. The condition of life is this: you must join us as our servant. If you choose life, you must kill the man who now serves us. You will do this to prove yourself to us, and if faithful your service will be handsomely rewarded.”

From his words, I concluded that he did not recognize me. I also concluded that to save my own life, I would be forced to accept his terms. There was no other choice. I did not want him to recognize my voice, so I quickly nodded and uttered a damning single word: “Life.”

The men surrounding me slowly stepped backward a few paces, enlarging the circle. From behind them, a small man was thrust into the circle, stumbling and falling to the ground. Blood poured down the side of his head and I saw a desperate fear in his crazed eyes. Then a sword was tossed onto the ground beside me. From the ground he began to plead for his life.

“Please! Do not kill me!” His words began to slur and he struggled to stay conscious. “I am innocent!” he screamed. “I have been true to my word! Spare me! Please!”

I hesitated, then picked up the sword. And in one swift strike, the deed was done. I stared at the bloody blade as it dropped from my hands. I had killed a man, and I knew then that my conscience would never let me rest peacefully again. I looked up as Melchor spoke.

“Your life belongs to us now. Never forget that.” I blacked out as something hit the back of my head.

When I awoke, I was on the sand of the beach, but it was still early in the night. A torch was propped in the sand near me. My head ached and my right hand burned with pain. I ripped off the bloody white bandage to see that an X had been carved into my palm. Blood still oozed from the sliced flesh and I quickly rewound the bandage. Then I fainted.

When I regained consciousness, I looked around and saw a small raft up the beach. I walked to it, finding a paper tied with string to one of the large branches forming the raft. I read the note then returned to where I had hidden my journal and in my crazed condition wrote a few words. Then I fainted again, unable to awaken myself from the nightmares until the morning light.

I do not dare reveal the exact details of the note in this journal. I fear that I have sold my soul.

[Editor's Note: This is part of a series of entries taken from a worn journal that was found in a box of mostly worthless trinkets bought at an estate sale years ago. While most of the writing is legible, some of the ink has faded and a few pages are missing. Sam has taken the liberty of filling in any gaps. ]

No matter how much testing the product or service goes through, it always needs more than you have time for. A slow roll out of the service after traditional “quality testing”, allowing first your company, then select numbers of your customers, then a wider group, and then finally all customers.

This slow transition allows the more advanced users to comb through and find the remaining errors to iron out, while giving you time to write the proper documentation on all levels, for future programmers, your customer support team, and the customers themselves.

Almost as a double opportunity, the slow transition allows you to let the marketing do itself. By having an “invite only” limited release, it builds a frenzy around trying to get into the new system or buy the new product. Take a look at the limited release of Gmail or the iPhone as examples of successful product and service launches.

Take a closer look at Apple’s product release dates and you’ll realize that the company is always releasing new things for people to buy. Like clockwork, people expect to see something new announced from the lips of Steve Jobs once or twice a year, and even ’surprise’ product launches are common place. If you let your product or service get old, out-dated, ugly, and rarely fix the problems people have - you lose customers and you innovate to survive. Surviving isn’t enough for a business to be successful - you have to beat the competition, who is trying harder to be better than you and win over your current and future customers. By changing the perception of a new release, companies are able to turn the tables on the customer. Instead of thinking “this is broken, I’m leaving”, the thought change to, “Wow, version 2 was amazing, I can’t wait to see what version 3 has.”

Overall, the keys to success are having a solid, awesome product or service, test repeatedly until it’s fun to use and flawlessly easy to understand, and don’t let marketing opportunity pass you by, think about the box and change your perception of what is inside the box. Don’t send an email, start a rumor and people will email you.

WAKING IDEAS: How do you compare the music of the United States and North America in general to the industry and scene over in Scotland?

KIT MAXWELL: The music in Scotland i must say far exceeds in originality and just better music than Canada and USA.

WI: That’s a little bit self righteous. What do you mean?

KM: It differs alot in Scotland, you see.

WI: You’re an immigrant, right?

KM: Born and raised in Scotland, until recently moving to Canada.

WI: So you’d say it’s a different experience? I mean obviously growing up in one scene and then being uprooted and having to find new music and bands to enjoy, especially in Canada, is going to be difficult.

KM: I play the bagpipes ok, So back in Scotland, if I where to play them outside my house at least thirty people would come to listen to me, they soak up the music and love it.

WI: I experienced that while I was there this past summer, even if people are terrible musicians there’s always a small crowd standing around talking and laughing. The Scottish really take their culture seriously.

KM: You see, the music there is cultivated and grown, from pubs to family backyards every song is given a flavour of the people who sing it.

WI: Have you heard any of the United States folk music? I know it’s not the largest selection or as popular as stuff on the radio, but it’s out there.

KM: You don’t see alot of good celtic or folk music in North America its mostly all a bunch of emo crap.

WI: It’s a shame that you see those bands as our ‘folk’ music, but I guess that’s what the corporate radio and media image is pushing. What bands have you heard?

KM: Justin [a friend] has shown me lots about Folk music from North America but if I showed him the wide variety of music from Scotland, I’m sure he would be blowed away.

WI: That’s one of the great things about the internet - you can find all different types and genres of music from all over the world.

WI: I know you’ve hinted at how you feel about this, but how does the music scene in Canada compare?

KM: Many things about the North America in the whole music scene is just fake.

WI: True, there are alot of very superficial people here.

KM: Some friends from my school [in Canada] introduced me to a genre called… Rap. My god it is the most crap products ever.

WI: Rap has very few bright spots, and most of the popular stuff it is just shameful.

KM: Honestly? Degrading your race by using slandering terms doesn’t make you sound cool. Urinating on things.. It’s just not cool. That’s a real difference here - back in my home, music was special. It was something to be loved.

This particular morning I had been woken up, moaning about how bright the sun was and how I might melt disappear in the fog on the way home. On the way out the door I spotted a CD from the night before and instantly a song stuck in my head, and I just sorta jammed along in my head and danced as my morning began to turn around. I grabbed the new Hot Chip album and shuffled to the car.

My brother yawned and asked what CD I grabbed. I just turned it louder, selected track 11 of Made in the Dark, and grinned. The road screamed as the car flew down the highway to catch the train, and hypnotized by the strangely fresh music he lost it. I laughed as my brother moved his arms and tapped his feet, bobbing his head and singing along as if he’d heard it a million times. After arriving at the train station exactly on time, my brother rushed to buy his ticket and I sat in the car laughing.

Hot Chip’s Made in the Dark is one of my recent favorite albums and it’s held up against time. After constantly listening it as it leaked, then buying and still listening for weeks after the official release, I took a break and gave it some time to age and realized that I would come back to it eventually and just totally dance and grin like that day. In late July, I put that notion to test and brought the album to work. It turned out to be nearly the best day of work ever (almost as good as the day I brought Daft Punk’s Discovery).

It rained twice during the night, both warm showers that filled then spilled my canteen. I was able to aright it before the second rain ceased, and ended up with half a canteen of water for the day. After the unsettling night, I couldn’t stomach any fruit for breakfast.

I left early in the morning, circling around the whole of the island. I have marked the trees at regular intervals while counting my steps. I believe that the whole island is no more than 20 miles in circumference. I also found a very small stream across the island. I followed it inward for a while, but returned, not caring to ascend into the mountain of jungle. I became hungry after the activities of the day and ate a long yellow fruit. The skin is hard, but was easily removed with my knife. The inner core is soft and strange, with tiny soft seeds.

I spent most of the afternoon thinking about how I could invent a fishing rod and hook. I have carved a branch into a suitable pole and imaging that vines twisted together could act as line. The hook evades me. How did the first men create the hook? I know not. If a woman created it, then I am lost, for I understand not the workings of the mind of the fairer sex.

[Editor's Note: This is part of a series of entries taken from a worn journal that was found in a box of mostly worthless trinkets bought at an estate sale years ago. While most of the writing is legible, some of the ink has faded and a few pages are missing. Sam has taken the liberty of filling in any gaps. ]