Have you ever devised a letter-for-letter swap (c=a, e=b, etc.), creating a secret code with your friends? Have you ever listened to the wind passing between two rocks, creating a pulsating whistling sound? Have you ever looked at a colour-coded representation of sound waves bouncing back and forth in a room?
Have you ever listened to Kaija Saariaho, industrial music or experimental avant-garde anything? Have you ever looked at a loom and watched the weaving of coloured/textured threads, thinking about punch cards and Pareto charts? The last time you passed by a big bridge in the city, did you notice the same group of people standing along one side of the bridge and appearing in different positions once a day (say, around lunch time), sending semaphore messages to a person standing with a video-recording mobile phone at an elevated subway train platform?
Have you entered a room of a house, its contents looking haphazardly stacked, noting with great attention to detail the exact placement of every item, returning every day to note changes in the items' positions, and then going back to your computer to decipher the three-dimensional message being recorded by a friend for you? What if the person who lived in the flat across the alleyway from you opened her blinds for a few minutes each day for just such a purpose? Would you be willing to spend the rest of your life writing down the once-daily scripted text, just to discover at the end of your life that the message was part 1 of a three-part message meant for someone two generations after yours?
Do you believe what you see with your eyes? Do you know all the scents your body gives off? Can a robot's skin blush? Some people have dry skin. Some people have oily skin. Some people have a combination of dry, scaly and oily skin. Which one should an artificially-skinned android emulate? What should s/he smell like? One overall scent? A variety of scents? Scents that change with temperature, time and social situations?
Have you ever listened to white or pink noise? Would you recognize and differentiate random serial tones from ones which require a special filter to hear patterned sound or music?
Would you recognize a spaceship if you were born on it thousands of your species' generations after the spaceship was created, the details and nuances of the spaceship's creators' language/culture forgotten in the dust and noise of living daily on the new vessel?
If you know what you're doing, you can do whatever you want in plain sight of those who do not know what you're doing and who do not want you to do what you do. The idea is to blend seamlessly into their world while you carry your world with you.
One person's annoyance at the sound of a loud leaf blower is another person's saxophone/horn sending out beautiful avant-garde music to those who see that a leaf blower operator is a gift from the gods, sent to test your understanding of the desire of one person to magically/artfully move leaves, dirt, cigarette butts and tree seeds without touching them. We all are artists using our bodies as paint brushes and the universe as our canvas, our movements like musical notes written in an invisible score on stage and in the arena with ballet dancers and ball players.
This is my world, my canvas, completely full of every one of you, my art creations, perfection personified. I am excited to know you, to see you, to not see you, to sense you when you're not here, to know you're the face of one of the dice I've just rattled in the cup of a game of Yahtzee.
You are my friend Joey, who, when as young teenagers about the same age (12 or 13), introduced me to the book, "The Search for Joseph Tully," and taught me that who we think we are is not what others think or act upon. You are my friend David N. who made me envious when you got a greenhouse when we were in secondary school and whose work in the chemistry field still makes me envious of your genius.
You are my coworkers Ron, Frank, Henry and Tommy who taught me that it takes a team of dedicated designers to create a masterpiece. We never know what we had until it's gone and in the hands of marketers and technically-savvy hackers who turn a simple high-speed data transmission device into a portable server/client system. We learn that our customers are often better at extracting a product's worth than what our BOMs and profit margins say, that it makes more sense to get a product out the door with obvious flaws that we ask our customers to help us fix/improve than it is to imagine what perfection is supposed to be.
Without my friends, I am no one. I am noise without a filter, post-industrial music with no appreciative listener. It's not about who I am - you is the only it that matters. Settling into a subdivision/housing estate in Latvia is only important if Latvia's where it's at for you, know what I mean? Otherwise, if/when "They" decide to cut off your natural gas supply in winter, then it's not where you want to be at, is it? Makes me wonder what's going on in Minsk or other Belarus ruses. Just when you thought Chechnya is under control, you have to pay attention to the chilies in Chile, do you not? See why I pay attention to the music? All messages are not hidden in the noise of JPG photos. Some noise is in plain sight, just like me and my three-dimensional towers of powerful "tunes." Encrypted computer hard drives are for weenies to decode. Low-tech is still worthy of consideration. Sigh...why do I tell you what you should already know? I guess because I know that the espionage folks have made their thoughts into a business/industry, perpetuating and expanding bureaucracy for bureaucracy's sake, eating each other's tails for breakfast and regrowing them in the afternoon, never knowing they're consuming the same thing the next day and the next day and the next... Remember, never be a member of a club that you don't agree with or understand - otherwise, you'll find yourself justifying your membership to your friends who know better and wonder when you started believing your own lies. "Look, Mommy, there's an airplane up in the sky." [Quick! Pick their pockets while everyone's looking up!]
Distraction. That's the key to understanding what these words are all about. Maybe we can pick up this lesson another day when you're ignoring the superficial message of these words and listening to the sound waves they produce. YAWN! Time for my afternoon nap and then I'll look at the data I collected to see the interference patterns caused by my microwave oven while I'm sending data across my WiFi link - then maybe I can figure out the effect of microwave radiation on the radishes growing next to the radicchio to see why they're turning into pomme de terres of another sort.
06 January 2010
While I'm At It...
Having spent the past year pondering the stereoscopic view of the world from the tip of my nose, I suddenly find I am with you in the western calendrical world of 2010. But I am also in 4707 in the Chinese calendar system, 5770 in the Jewish calendar system and in the Aztec calendar system, today is 11 - Tochtli (rabbit) 1 - Tecpatl (flint knife) 3 - Xochitl (flower).
Numerical day-counting systems aside, today, the moment somewhere between waking up after sunrise and going to sleep after sunset, I note the local scalar system which indicates my gravitational pull onto this planetary body. A metal contraption containing a spring and a dial told me today's lucky number is 235, five digits less than the number 240 which appeared three days ago.
I don't know the magic number I'm trying to hit but I do know the effect I want to cause as the days disappear behind me. Having jogged/walked and completed a marathon in 2004, a little over five years ago, when my specific gravitational equilibrium read 195 (seven pounds heavier than what my general practitioner (i.e., family doctor) called my "ideal" weight to body type ratio (medium build, 6'1" height, good health in my early 40s)), I believe it's time to put exercise practices back into practice.
Walking 30 minutes a day, using the in-home rowing machine, and memorising Tai Chi movements will occupy parts of my days this year. A balanced diet of protein, fiber and other tasty treats will accompany my eating routines.
I'll post updates on what I've accomplished by adding general fitness routines to my daily habits.
I have no goals other than to vary my habits from one set of seasonal changes to another. Of course, I have a long-term goal - to float around the dark side of the moon on an outer space cruise/spa ship - where every pound/stone has a high price in fuel. Now's as good a time as any to reduce my future fuel use while I see what the rest of the seven billion members of my species is up to.
Until later...
Numerical day-counting systems aside, today, the moment somewhere between waking up after sunrise and going to sleep after sunset, I note the local scalar system which indicates my gravitational pull onto this planetary body. A metal contraption containing a spring and a dial told me today's lucky number is 235, five digits less than the number 240 which appeared three days ago.
I don't know the magic number I'm trying to hit but I do know the effect I want to cause as the days disappear behind me. Having jogged/walked and completed a marathon in 2004, a little over five years ago, when my specific gravitational equilibrium read 195 (seven pounds heavier than what my general practitioner (i.e., family doctor) called my "ideal" weight to body type ratio (medium build, 6'1" height, good health in my early 40s)), I believe it's time to put exercise practices back into practice.
Walking 30 minutes a day, using the in-home rowing machine, and memorising Tai Chi movements will occupy parts of my days this year. A balanced diet of protein, fiber and other tasty treats will accompany my eating routines.
I'll post updates on what I've accomplished by adding general fitness routines to my daily habits.
I have no goals other than to vary my habits from one set of seasonal changes to another. Of course, I have a long-term goal - to float around the dark side of the moon on an outer space cruise/spa ship - where every pound/stone has a high price in fuel. Now's as good a time as any to reduce my future fuel use while I see what the rest of the seven billion members of my species is up to.
Until later...
05 January 2010
Mum Mummy Mummer
While watching the Mummers Parade, a New Year's celebratory march of outlandishly costumed street performers (imagine Mardi Gras parades in New Orleans meeting Rio's Carnival in downtown Philadelphia, PA), I flipped through some books I'd bought at the annual used reading material sale from our local library. As many of you know, libraries toss tonnes of texts into the garbage every year but some libraries try to make a little profit selling books, magazines and other physical goods in decent shape. These days, you can buy ex-library or remainder books online through resellers hanging their shingles on websites like amazon.co.uk or daedalusbooks.com.
But I'm not here to talk about books, purchased or otherwise (such as the free one I got from David Bach via email yesterday, "Start Over, Finish Rich," a reminder that you/us, the average investor, should not let short-term setbacks move you off the track of long-term financial success, a down economy means an up opportunity for you (e.g., find out more about your neighbours who need to move a house/condo quickly because of dire financial straits and scoop up a cheap rental property in the process), etc.). But maybe I am [reminder to self: write blog entry about when my newly-married, one income parents used their discretionary funds for housekeeping/au pair type services which, as empty-nesters, they now use to pay for high-speed Internet, mobile phone and cable television services - you don't need two incomes to survive in today's economy, you need wiser spending habits; teach your offspring and yourselves the value of opportunity costs].
You see, I found an interesting book. Old. Dusty. Ragged edges. The type of book that the H.P. Lovecrafts and Dan Browns of the world love to whisper about finding in sepulchral out-of-the-way digs. In other words, a book published in 2008 which never made it to the bestseller lists, ending up on piles in places like Mike's Merchandise or the local library sale.
No ISBN. No reference numbers of any kind. Presumably self-published. Donated to the library? Purchased by the library for a curious reader? I don't know.
"Dissidence and Dissonance" by Presonia La Fontaine. No picture of the author. No self-inflating biographical sketch of a home in the Hamptons and a Paris apartment where the author lives with a spouse, three children and two dogs when not traversing the planet spreading joy and happiness to others.
A slim volume. Less than 100 pages. Full of facts I haven't doublechecked and verified against what I always hope are reliable sources. Interesting reading, though, even if the facts aren't real.
You see, Presonia (guy or gal?) proposed that the world's great musical composers were or are members of a secret society dedicated to spreading the voice of freedom, seeking victories not in direct clashes with governmental authorities but through the subversive use of music to tell stories that contradict the official party lines told by their political leaders and teach others to interpret the text hidden in the musical notes.
The author ended the book with the question about whether other communication methods like spread spectrum technology are also subversive means of conversation for intelligentsia.
And now you know why I've become interested in writing musical compositions of my own. Presonia presented what s/he considered actual textual interpretations of classic music from sources all over the world, including tribal music from the Amazon, North America, Africa and Australia. Presonia also proposed that the music of the opening and closing ceremonies of the Olympics in China were specifically written to thwart government censorship there, following in the footsteps of great Russian composers before the fall of the Soviet Union, encouraging revolt not in physical attacks on the government but in dissident thinking. Presonia showed why the prepared piano was created and musical scores of John Cage were written for dissidents within the United States.
Presonia then wrote several chapters analysing the dissonance of modern music, from jazz and bebop to hip hop and rap, showing that the same symbols or "letters of the alphabet" can be found in all music, once one understands how one frequency can be both the stroke of the letter (in a chord) and a letter, too, and how rhythm has multiple purposes, like combining musical symbols onto a set of three-dimensional dice, where one has to know not only the symbol on the face of a die but also the symbols on the die's faces that you can't see and the supersymbol (or alphabetic letter) formed by the specific placement of dice in a song.
In the chapter where Presonia presented what s/he determined was the ultimate goal of music, to allow anarchy to disrupt the evil plans of world governments, I lost interest. I'm not a conspiracy theorist. I don't see or care if there are ulterior motives of the people around me. I have no hidden agenda to achieve. My goals are announced for the world of people to see. Either you're with me or you're not with me. My purpose of seeing if Presonia's theories are true are to improve my means of communicating with those around me. If I can use music to achieve a richer, deeper sense of understanding what others are saying, then my current view of life is worth living in this moment. Otherwise, I'll find another view.
And while I investigate music as a sound-based hieroglyphic symbolic text-writing machine, I'll dig into the use of other seemingly arbitrary combinations of waveforms as more complex means of talking and thinking. I spent too much time in my youth seeing analog-to-digital and digital-to-analog chips as the only way to convert one energy state to another that I never gave much thought about analog-to-analog or digital-to-digital as the message-sending means. What if ultra-wideband is the medium and the message?
Makes me ponder the old saying, "Only the blind can truly see." I've spent and continue to spend too much time trying to believe what my eyes tell me that I forget we think and communicate using multiple methods already - voice, body language, touch, low-power "brain waves," hormones, etc.
Look at a map of the universe's gamma ray energy sources from Earth's point of view and you see why a single planet or solar system is a poor, low-resolution viewpoint of the universe around us. Like asking a jungle pygmy to describe the purpose of a nuclear power plant - the pygmy may be able to create a curative salve with the leaf of a rare orchid but could not, by looking at the nuclear plant, know how to compute the decay rate of radioactive material.
All these years I spent studying written languages, worrying myself about grammar and sentence structure, watching as linguists try to assemble the set of "original" words spoken by our species... and here in front of me has been the primary or aboriginal language all along: the sound waves themselves. For those who are already in the know, I ask your patience as I come up to speed. For those of you already using multiple waveforms to communicate, I commend you. For those of you who know the extrauniversal conversation tools, I look forward to meeting with you soon.
To know I am here only because you are / exist and I am not here because I do not exist, all while I discover ways of being me I never thought possible is really what my life is all about. And only a few days ago I thought these words were all I had! Instead, I see (blindly and lately) that how I talk to you, my friends, is just as important as what I say.
Have a great day!
But I'm not here to talk about books, purchased or otherwise (such as the free one I got from David Bach via email yesterday, "Start Over, Finish Rich," a reminder that you/us, the average investor, should not let short-term setbacks move you off the track of long-term financial success, a down economy means an up opportunity for you (e.g., find out more about your neighbours who need to move a house/condo quickly because of dire financial straits and scoop up a cheap rental property in the process), etc.). But maybe I am [reminder to self: write blog entry about when my newly-married, one income parents used their discretionary funds for housekeeping/au pair type services which, as empty-nesters, they now use to pay for high-speed Internet, mobile phone and cable television services - you don't need two incomes to survive in today's economy, you need wiser spending habits; teach your offspring and yourselves the value of opportunity costs].
You see, I found an interesting book. Old. Dusty. Ragged edges. The type of book that the H.P. Lovecrafts and Dan Browns of the world love to whisper about finding in sepulchral out-of-the-way digs. In other words, a book published in 2008 which never made it to the bestseller lists, ending up on piles in places like Mike's Merchandise or the local library sale.
No ISBN. No reference numbers of any kind. Presumably self-published. Donated to the library? Purchased by the library for a curious reader? I don't know.
"Dissidence and Dissonance" by Presonia La Fontaine. No picture of the author. No self-inflating biographical sketch of a home in the Hamptons and a Paris apartment where the author lives with a spouse, three children and two dogs when not traversing the planet spreading joy and happiness to others.
A slim volume. Less than 100 pages. Full of facts I haven't doublechecked and verified against what I always hope are reliable sources. Interesting reading, though, even if the facts aren't real.
You see, Presonia (guy or gal?) proposed that the world's great musical composers were or are members of a secret society dedicated to spreading the voice of freedom, seeking victories not in direct clashes with governmental authorities but through the subversive use of music to tell stories that contradict the official party lines told by their political leaders and teach others to interpret the text hidden in the musical notes.
The author ended the book with the question about whether other communication methods like spread spectrum technology are also subversive means of conversation for intelligentsia.
And now you know why I've become interested in writing musical compositions of my own. Presonia presented what s/he considered actual textual interpretations of classic music from sources all over the world, including tribal music from the Amazon, North America, Africa and Australia. Presonia also proposed that the music of the opening and closing ceremonies of the Olympics in China were specifically written to thwart government censorship there, following in the footsteps of great Russian composers before the fall of the Soviet Union, encouraging revolt not in physical attacks on the government but in dissident thinking. Presonia showed why the prepared piano was created and musical scores of John Cage were written for dissidents within the United States.
Presonia then wrote several chapters analysing the dissonance of modern music, from jazz and bebop to hip hop and rap, showing that the same symbols or "letters of the alphabet" can be found in all music, once one understands how one frequency can be both the stroke of the letter (in a chord) and a letter, too, and how rhythm has multiple purposes, like combining musical symbols onto a set of three-dimensional dice, where one has to know not only the symbol on the face of a die but also the symbols on the die's faces that you can't see and the supersymbol (or alphabetic letter) formed by the specific placement of dice in a song.
In the chapter where Presonia presented what s/he determined was the ultimate goal of music, to allow anarchy to disrupt the evil plans of world governments, I lost interest. I'm not a conspiracy theorist. I don't see or care if there are ulterior motives of the people around me. I have no hidden agenda to achieve. My goals are announced for the world of people to see. Either you're with me or you're not with me. My purpose of seeing if Presonia's theories are true are to improve my means of communicating with those around me. If I can use music to achieve a richer, deeper sense of understanding what others are saying, then my current view of life is worth living in this moment. Otherwise, I'll find another view.
And while I investigate music as a sound-based hieroglyphic symbolic text-writing machine, I'll dig into the use of other seemingly arbitrary combinations of waveforms as more complex means of talking and thinking. I spent too much time in my youth seeing analog-to-digital and digital-to-analog chips as the only way to convert one energy state to another that I never gave much thought about analog-to-analog or digital-to-digital as the message-sending means. What if ultra-wideband is the medium and the message?
Makes me ponder the old saying, "Only the blind can truly see." I've spent and continue to spend too much time trying to believe what my eyes tell me that I forget we think and communicate using multiple methods already - voice, body language, touch, low-power "brain waves," hormones, etc.
Look at a map of the universe's gamma ray energy sources from Earth's point of view and you see why a single planet or solar system is a poor, low-resolution viewpoint of the universe around us. Like asking a jungle pygmy to describe the purpose of a nuclear power plant - the pygmy may be able to create a curative salve with the leaf of a rare orchid but could not, by looking at the nuclear plant, know how to compute the decay rate of radioactive material.
All these years I spent studying written languages, worrying myself about grammar and sentence structure, watching as linguists try to assemble the set of "original" words spoken by our species... and here in front of me has been the primary or aboriginal language all along: the sound waves themselves. For those who are already in the know, I ask your patience as I come up to speed. For those of you already using multiple waveforms to communicate, I commend you. For those of you who know the extrauniversal conversation tools, I look forward to meeting with you soon.
To know I am here only because you are / exist and I am not here because I do not exist, all while I discover ways of being me I never thought possible is really what my life is all about. And only a few days ago I thought these words were all I had! Instead, I see (blindly and lately) that how I talk to you, my friends, is just as important as what I say.
Have a great day!
04 January 2010
My Creative Friend
On this part of the planet, a colder-than-normal chill passes through the air. The baby, El Niño, and the cooling/warming Arctic, have combined to make winter cold again.
And winter brings people indoors, where we share new ideas and show off new home furnishings, new tools in the garage or new computer games.
I am not an inventive person. Instead, I hang out with my friends who have the skills and fortitude to design new inventions of their own.
For instance, a good, close friend of mine (who wishes to remain nameless) uses his house as a giant experimental breadboard / laboratory.
Back during the Thanksgiving holiday, I told him about my desire to keep the door to the entertainment room open but at the same time keeping the noise of the 7.1 surround sound system restricted to the home theatre so that my wife and her mother could entertain friends in the nearby kitchen and living room while I cranked up the sound of the football games.
So, between Thanksgiving and New Year's Eve, my friend went to work on an invisible soundproofing wall.
Have you ever walked into a building and noticed the "wall" of heat you walk through just inside the doorway? Or have you ever paid attention to the way cold air is circulated in those open bins / coolers in the grocer's market that hold vats of butter, crates of eggs and cases of beer?
Well, that describes my friend's new device.
He invited me over to his house last night for a demonstration. On one side of a doorway, he had set a 12" subwoofer enclosure, some speaker boxes configured with a variety of tweeters and midrange noisebangers, and a guitar amplifier. He had me stand a few inches from the doorway. He walked over to the stereo system and turned it on, or so it appeared. I heard nothing but I did see some odd flexing images, as if I was staring into the room across a hot carpark or desert, a mirage of my friend and his gear in front of me.
He then walked over to the doorway and flipped a switch on the wall. My ears felt like they had burst when the blaring of a Jimi Hendrix tune blasted out of the room. My friend flipped the switch again and I was left with ringing ears and the same wavering mirage.
He walked back to the surround sound system and turned it off. The mirage effect lessened. My friend flipped the switch on the wall and I heard him in mid-sentence say, "'...t do you think?"
I asked him what I'd seen so he explained in layman's terms the device he'd created and installed in the doorway. It was some sort of sound cancellation system, with an incomplete visible light alteration system in place, too.
He showed me the plans and told me he'd sent the design to two teams, one in Japan and one in China, having them work with one another to perfect the overall look and manufacturability of the system. Meanwhile, he'd contacted his American, Russian, Brazilian, Canadian and Indian software designers to come up with better algorithms to control the visible light control system. He guessed that by mid-March he'd have a working unit for me to install at my house.
We played with the doorway sound cancellation system some more. He pointed out to me that he hadn't eliminated the floor vibrations of the subwoofer but since it didn't bother me any more than the effect of a distant passing automobile full of teenagers listening to music, he'd assume that most people would accept the fact the door device was only eliminating sound through an open doorway. If they wanted more than that, they'd have to build an entertainment room in a more isolated, soundproofed room of their house.
We watched a lopsided professional American football game for a while, downing a few holiday brews, and then went downstairs to his workshop.
My friend's always toying with wood. He, like most of my friends, grew up with fathers and grandfathers who carved and sawed wood for home furnishings or children's toys. My friend's latest creation is a folding step ladder that forms a spiral staircase. He mentioned that he was tired of the same old A-frame shaped step ladder and wanted something he could unfold in a tight space that offered some stable footprint for standing on its own (unlike an extension ladder) but didn't require a huge footprint. We talked about the ladder for a while and realised that there might be a market for this ladder in the treehouse world. Or maybe even for access to lofts or other tight spaces.
I can't tell you my friend's name but I can tell you his nickname - Goldfinger. Everything he thinks about or touches turns to precious metal. If I just had the nail of that finger, I'd be a rich man myself!
As I was leaving his house, I joked about the effect one person has on society, recounting all the inventions of his that had made it into production and improved the standard of living for others. He laughed. He pointed out that one person can make a difference in many ways, including the misguided Nigerian, whose recent actions on an airplane changed the lives of others flying during the holiday season in the U.S. When did we start letting terrorists decide how the rest of the free world is supposed to live? There are times, he said, when we should ignore the actions of one person and not pretend to make our lives safer by harassing the lives of ordinary, law-abiding travelers. Not only is it demeaning but it reduces the efficiency of people transportation, like running a railroad car full of sand through a hand sifter to look for a metal ball bearing instead of using a magnet at the sand processing plant to keep metal out of the sand in the first place. Easy for him to say - he never flies on commercial airplanes. He's rich enough that people he needs to meet usually fly to his house, or if he needs to fly he takes his own private aircraft.
Anyway, can't wait to see what he invents next. Every time I open my mouth, he responds with something to improve my life and make more money for him, which he typically donates anonymously to research centers around the world, never knowing which society's going to create the next set of geniuses.
More later...time for lunch. This cold weather's making this big boy hungry! Maybe I can invent a new way to mix peanut butter, Nutella and some other ingredient for a special sandwich today.
And winter brings people indoors, where we share new ideas and show off new home furnishings, new tools in the garage or new computer games.
I am not an inventive person. Instead, I hang out with my friends who have the skills and fortitude to design new inventions of their own.
For instance, a good, close friend of mine (who wishes to remain nameless) uses his house as a giant experimental breadboard / laboratory.
Back during the Thanksgiving holiday, I told him about my desire to keep the door to the entertainment room open but at the same time keeping the noise of the 7.1 surround sound system restricted to the home theatre so that my wife and her mother could entertain friends in the nearby kitchen and living room while I cranked up the sound of the football games.
So, between Thanksgiving and New Year's Eve, my friend went to work on an invisible soundproofing wall.
Have you ever walked into a building and noticed the "wall" of heat you walk through just inside the doorway? Or have you ever paid attention to the way cold air is circulated in those open bins / coolers in the grocer's market that hold vats of butter, crates of eggs and cases of beer?
Well, that describes my friend's new device.
He invited me over to his house last night for a demonstration. On one side of a doorway, he had set a 12" subwoofer enclosure, some speaker boxes configured with a variety of tweeters and midrange noisebangers, and a guitar amplifier. He had me stand a few inches from the doorway. He walked over to the stereo system and turned it on, or so it appeared. I heard nothing but I did see some odd flexing images, as if I was staring into the room across a hot carpark or desert, a mirage of my friend and his gear in front of me.
He then walked over to the doorway and flipped a switch on the wall. My ears felt like they had burst when the blaring of a Jimi Hendrix tune blasted out of the room. My friend flipped the switch again and I was left with ringing ears and the same wavering mirage.
He walked back to the surround sound system and turned it off. The mirage effect lessened. My friend flipped the switch on the wall and I heard him in mid-sentence say, "'...t do you think?"
I asked him what I'd seen so he explained in layman's terms the device he'd created and installed in the doorway. It was some sort of sound cancellation system, with an incomplete visible light alteration system in place, too.
He showed me the plans and told me he'd sent the design to two teams, one in Japan and one in China, having them work with one another to perfect the overall look and manufacturability of the system. Meanwhile, he'd contacted his American, Russian, Brazilian, Canadian and Indian software designers to come up with better algorithms to control the visible light control system. He guessed that by mid-March he'd have a working unit for me to install at my house.
We played with the doorway sound cancellation system some more. He pointed out to me that he hadn't eliminated the floor vibrations of the subwoofer but since it didn't bother me any more than the effect of a distant passing automobile full of teenagers listening to music, he'd assume that most people would accept the fact the door device was only eliminating sound through an open doorway. If they wanted more than that, they'd have to build an entertainment room in a more isolated, soundproofed room of their house.
We watched a lopsided professional American football game for a while, downing a few holiday brews, and then went downstairs to his workshop.
My friend's always toying with wood. He, like most of my friends, grew up with fathers and grandfathers who carved and sawed wood for home furnishings or children's toys. My friend's latest creation is a folding step ladder that forms a spiral staircase. He mentioned that he was tired of the same old A-frame shaped step ladder and wanted something he could unfold in a tight space that offered some stable footprint for standing on its own (unlike an extension ladder) but didn't require a huge footprint. We talked about the ladder for a while and realised that there might be a market for this ladder in the treehouse world. Or maybe even for access to lofts or other tight spaces.
I can't tell you my friend's name but I can tell you his nickname - Goldfinger. Everything he thinks about or touches turns to precious metal. If I just had the nail of that finger, I'd be a rich man myself!
As I was leaving his house, I joked about the effect one person has on society, recounting all the inventions of his that had made it into production and improved the standard of living for others. He laughed. He pointed out that one person can make a difference in many ways, including the misguided Nigerian, whose recent actions on an airplane changed the lives of others flying during the holiday season in the U.S. When did we start letting terrorists decide how the rest of the free world is supposed to live? There are times, he said, when we should ignore the actions of one person and not pretend to make our lives safer by harassing the lives of ordinary, law-abiding travelers. Not only is it demeaning but it reduces the efficiency of people transportation, like running a railroad car full of sand through a hand sifter to look for a metal ball bearing instead of using a magnet at the sand processing plant to keep metal out of the sand in the first place. Easy for him to say - he never flies on commercial airplanes. He's rich enough that people he needs to meet usually fly to his house, or if he needs to fly he takes his own private aircraft.
Anyway, can't wait to see what he invents next. Every time I open my mouth, he responds with something to improve my life and make more money for him, which he typically donates anonymously to research centers around the world, never knowing which society's going to create the next set of geniuses.
More later...time for lunch. This cold weather's making this big boy hungry! Maybe I can invent a new way to mix peanut butter, Nutella and some other ingredient for a special sandwich today.
Mt. Ofolympicproportions
"And I say that we throw 30 more virgins into the giant crack in the earth."
"Why?"
"Well, my illuminated, enlightened, glorious leader, it will appease the gods."
"And what shall I tell the families who are sacrificing their daughters for this theory of yours?"
"Tell them...tell them they are gaining great favour with the gods."
"By that, you mean I will have to bribe them through some backdoor method that they will not be aware of?"
"If, my great and wonderful, all-seeing empire builder...if that is your wish."
"Let me think about it for a minute. Hmm...so you think the gods want to fill this new gap in the earth with young female bodies? And does this mean they act as some sort of paste or mortar to hold our empire together? Will this keep my monuments intact? Will the temples stand firm just because we threw some people into a new crevice?"
"Oh, Magnificent One, you ask many wise questions."
"Wise? I am not wise. I am curious, that's all. What is a person made of that the gods need to keep from causing more earthquakes? I mean, are the people sacrificial idiots? Do we rule by fear and intimidation just so I can wear these gold-threaded outfits and eat fresh fruit all year long?"
"Tremendous thoughts, my lord. You capture the ideas of many rulers before you."
"Do I? I just don't know... What if these virgins could think for themselves? Would any of them have ideas for creating expansion joints that let our buildings, bridges and roads sway with earthquakes and not fall apart?"
"Grand and encouraging master, we have no choice but to sacrifice the virgins. The people demand we keep the gods happy."
"Yes, yes, I see. Leave me alone for half a day. I will consult with my private gods to divine the purest and most precise answer we need to make the people, the government, the gods and you - part of my advisory team - happy."
"As you desire."
"As I command!"
"Yes, my lord. I will return for midday meal and accept your new command."
"Go, go. I will call for you when I'm ready."
"I will just close this door behind me."
"Alone with my thoughts once again. Hmm... what is an earthquake? It is a movement of dirt and rock. And what is a movement of dirt and rock but a larger version of our rock cutting and road laying? Thus, it is reorganisation. The gods are reorganising this planet for their purposes. Therefore, like the ants who rebuild their homes in another area after we've paved roads from one city to the next, we must rebuild our homes in another area after the gods have shaken apart our fortresses and temples. How do I convince the people to move to an area less prone to earthquakes? I send the virgins on a quest. But which virgins? Dilemma, dilemma... I don't need just the prettiest. I don't need the daughters of families too big to support themselves. I want young women fit to explore new territory, think on their feet in uncharted waters, fight indigenous populations to create areas for settlement. Where do I find such women? City life has softened my most battle-hardened soldiers. I can't imagine what it's done to the female children of my soldiers and their civilised wives.
"Let me turn to my private altar and light incense to my gods. Here is scent of vanilla for you, Green Frog, bringer of rain and facial warts if we rub you too much for good luck. Here is the burning evergreen branch for you, Bleached Coral, protector of fish and sharp reminder that the ocean floor is not all soft sand. Here is the crushed wormwood for you, Dark Cloud, storehouse for lightning and tornadoes, favorite tools of the greater gods.
"What would you have me do? You have brought me here to this palace, made me head of the biggest empire the world has ever known. What do you want me to do for you? What will make everyone happy, or at least temporarily distracted from their daily woes so that it appears I have saved them from themselves one more time?
"Green Frog, why do you never smile? Why do you sit there and judge me with that blank stare? Bleached Coral, why do your branches hold ground even in the strongest wind? Dark Cloud, why do you come and and go as you please, never here when we need you? What do all of you combined try to tell me, especially when I do not listen?
"The incense. Your answers. I am beginning to see the light. A contest. The gods want the virgins to compete against one another. Of course, it makes sense. But what sort of contest? I am clearing my thoughts to see what you are trying to tell me. The... contest... will... be... a written test? Hmm...I don't know about that. We have not taught virgins how to read. We only raise them to be sacrifices, a duty which requires no formal training, only staying indoors out of the light of the blistering sun and learning to dress nicely and smile.
"Oh, I see what you're saying. The contest includes the training of the virgins. In fact, it includes all unmarried women and... and any men not inclined to fight first and ask educated questions later. You want to pit the best and brightest against one another! Why didn't I think of that? It will focus the whole empire on itself! We are going to create a new class of citizens.
"No more human sacrifices. Now we will require the people to give up their children for the duty of the expansion of the empire. We will classify our children according to learning ability. We will sequester the best and brightest for purposes only the gods know. Right now, you gods want them to figure out where to move the empire to a place more pleasing to you. I love you, my gods. You have given the people a new quest, a new purpose, something that will keep them occupied for years and years while they prepare their children to be the most pleasing to the gods. By creating this new class of educated people, you have helped me figure out how to ration the limited building resources we have right now during this natural disaster you caused. How much cheaper it will be to make reading materials instead of building new temples! How much easier it will be to house the children together in one place instead of importing slaves to watch over the children spread out among individual homes while their parents play the game of civilisation!
"Guard, call forth my chief advisor! I am ready to pronounce my next edict!"
"As you command, ma'am."
"That's Madame Emperor to you, specially-trained palace guard that you are."
"Yes, Madame Emperor, ma'am."
"Why?"
"Well, my illuminated, enlightened, glorious leader, it will appease the gods."
"And what shall I tell the families who are sacrificing their daughters for this theory of yours?"
"Tell them...tell them they are gaining great favour with the gods."
"By that, you mean I will have to bribe them through some backdoor method that they will not be aware of?"
"If, my great and wonderful, all-seeing empire builder...if that is your wish."
"Let me think about it for a minute. Hmm...so you think the gods want to fill this new gap in the earth with young female bodies? And does this mean they act as some sort of paste or mortar to hold our empire together? Will this keep my monuments intact? Will the temples stand firm just because we threw some people into a new crevice?"
"Oh, Magnificent One, you ask many wise questions."
"Wise? I am not wise. I am curious, that's all. What is a person made of that the gods need to keep from causing more earthquakes? I mean, are the people sacrificial idiots? Do we rule by fear and intimidation just so I can wear these gold-threaded outfits and eat fresh fruit all year long?"
"Tremendous thoughts, my lord. You capture the ideas of many rulers before you."
"Do I? I just don't know... What if these virgins could think for themselves? Would any of them have ideas for creating expansion joints that let our buildings, bridges and roads sway with earthquakes and not fall apart?"
"Grand and encouraging master, we have no choice but to sacrifice the virgins. The people demand we keep the gods happy."
"Yes, yes, I see. Leave me alone for half a day. I will consult with my private gods to divine the purest and most precise answer we need to make the people, the government, the gods and you - part of my advisory team - happy."
"As you desire."
"As I command!"
"Yes, my lord. I will return for midday meal and accept your new command."
"Go, go. I will call for you when I'm ready."
"I will just close this door behind me."
"Alone with my thoughts once again. Hmm... what is an earthquake? It is a movement of dirt and rock. And what is a movement of dirt and rock but a larger version of our rock cutting and road laying? Thus, it is reorganisation. The gods are reorganising this planet for their purposes. Therefore, like the ants who rebuild their homes in another area after we've paved roads from one city to the next, we must rebuild our homes in another area after the gods have shaken apart our fortresses and temples. How do I convince the people to move to an area less prone to earthquakes? I send the virgins on a quest. But which virgins? Dilemma, dilemma... I don't need just the prettiest. I don't need the daughters of families too big to support themselves. I want young women fit to explore new territory, think on their feet in uncharted waters, fight indigenous populations to create areas for settlement. Where do I find such women? City life has softened my most battle-hardened soldiers. I can't imagine what it's done to the female children of my soldiers and their civilised wives.
"Let me turn to my private altar and light incense to my gods. Here is scent of vanilla for you, Green Frog, bringer of rain and facial warts if we rub you too much for good luck. Here is the burning evergreen branch for you, Bleached Coral, protector of fish and sharp reminder that the ocean floor is not all soft sand. Here is the crushed wormwood for you, Dark Cloud, storehouse for lightning and tornadoes, favorite tools of the greater gods.
"What would you have me do? You have brought me here to this palace, made me head of the biggest empire the world has ever known. What do you want me to do for you? What will make everyone happy, or at least temporarily distracted from their daily woes so that it appears I have saved them from themselves one more time?
"Green Frog, why do you never smile? Why do you sit there and judge me with that blank stare? Bleached Coral, why do your branches hold ground even in the strongest wind? Dark Cloud, why do you come and and go as you please, never here when we need you? What do all of you combined try to tell me, especially when I do not listen?
"The incense. Your answers. I am beginning to see the light. A contest. The gods want the virgins to compete against one another. Of course, it makes sense. But what sort of contest? I am clearing my thoughts to see what you are trying to tell me. The... contest... will... be... a written test? Hmm...I don't know about that. We have not taught virgins how to read. We only raise them to be sacrifices, a duty which requires no formal training, only staying indoors out of the light of the blistering sun and learning to dress nicely and smile.
"Oh, I see what you're saying. The contest includes the training of the virgins. In fact, it includes all unmarried women and... and any men not inclined to fight first and ask educated questions later. You want to pit the best and brightest against one another! Why didn't I think of that? It will focus the whole empire on itself! We are going to create a new class of citizens.
"No more human sacrifices. Now we will require the people to give up their children for the duty of the expansion of the empire. We will classify our children according to learning ability. We will sequester the best and brightest for purposes only the gods know. Right now, you gods want them to figure out where to move the empire to a place more pleasing to you. I love you, my gods. You have given the people a new quest, a new purpose, something that will keep them occupied for years and years while they prepare their children to be the most pleasing to the gods. By creating this new class of educated people, you have helped me figure out how to ration the limited building resources we have right now during this natural disaster you caused. How much cheaper it will be to make reading materials instead of building new temples! How much easier it will be to house the children together in one place instead of importing slaves to watch over the children spread out among individual homes while their parents play the game of civilisation!
"Guard, call forth my chief advisor! I am ready to pronounce my next edict!"
"As you command, ma'am."
"That's Madame Emperor to you, specially-trained palace guard that you are."
"Yes, Madame Emperor, ma'am."
01 January 2010
The Next Book: The Skeptic's Septic/Antiseptic Sceptre
1st January 2010
Standing in the bathroom, getting ready to scrape off the one-day length of facial hair in a daily ritual I follow (for what reason? Presentability? Reduced itching? Less beard to manage?), I glanced at myself, catching an image that my thoughts had not been prepared to see (normally, in my thoughts, I create a younger, slimmer version of myself that I mentally paste over what I see reflected to me by the mirror), a significant hunk (more like a hump) of flesh in my abdomen region, joined like Siamese twins to an equally expansive dual set of humps in my posterior / derriere area.
Am I really my own Internet? Am I, as I love / fear / suspect, a reflection of all this region of the universe has to offer in this moment?
I am alive, as we've come to define the confines of living.
Generally, I am happy, as we've come to realize the realisation of real happiness.
I sense the blowing winds of Mars and Jupiter, the freezing cold of the demoted planet Pluto, the dance of billions and billions of rocks around the Sun, the Sun's relatively cool weather, the killing of families of unique living things, the words and thoughts of our species, and ultimately, my place as a bounded set of energy states encountering the rest of what my eyes deceive me and the rest of my senses back up (leave it to the body to fool itself that it exists) to say we're all here at once.
We are one species. I'll grant us that because using the word species is easier than saying we're a similar group of similarly bounded states of energy that tends to regroup into similar sets upon the moment two dissimilar but equally-matched members of that group decide to recreate themselves in one like set (the only case, mathematically-speaking, where 1 + 1 = 1).
I want to be here but I don't want to be here in this moment with myself, with you, because by being here I am temporarily admitting that I like being the "I" that I've become. However, others have described to me the conditions of being that my being me has caused around me. At the same time, I know who I am and who I am not, which makes me wonder if and why I should respond to the changing conditions around me.
I am and can only ever be me, one person, one set of energy states, one dot at the end of the sentence that records the lives of all the people living at this moment, which changed during the last comma and changed during the typing of the period at the end of this sentence. My life, no matter how grand and powerful I may believe it to be (or how humbly I believe myself not to be), is but a flicker of flame in the log fire of this burning planet.
Oh, but what a flicker it is, full of oxygen and other atomic structures, able to build up civilisations and tear down mountains, able to power trips to distant galaxies and form planetary bodies like Earth, our home, our safe haven, our shared spherical space.
I am not just my own Internet, I am my own universe.
I can leave my ancestral home, I can give up the habits of my forebears, I can move to another area of the planet that doesn't care who I was and only deals with who I am, I can even leave Earth and settle down on nearby spheres like the Earth's moon or Mars and its satellites, and I can also explore asteroids, making a home on a piece of rock smaller than the island my seventh-great grandfather used as a temporary settlement while battling with his neighbours (who had many hundreds of years of "ownership" before he arrived) for a place to call home.
But I can't leave the universe as we know it. [Or can I? Well, I've said enough about that subject for now.]
Anyway, I'm back, once again. New attitude, using more of my skepticism to keep my Internet, my universe, in line with reality as we know it, accepting new discoveries, new ways of living (new clothing lines for city fashion or woods / jungle / savanna hunting, new automotive / home electronics accessories, new sports stars, new celebrity scandals, new political proclamations, new, new, new for you), waiting for the next big thing to come along, knowing I am not important as an individual, only important as my body, my entity, relates to the environment around me. No matter who or what we really are, we act/react. That's all we really need to know. The rest is details, details that make my Internet and my universe worth coming back here to write about. Only this time, I'm going to add music and images and other communication media to join others for whom writing words is not enough. Sing the body electric, celebrate bionics [great article, by the way, NatGeo], converse with the stars, shop at your local retailer because we all have competitive advantages to offer.
Thanks to Julia, Annette, my parents and nameless (but smiling faces of) others for encouraging me to keep this blog going. What's the point of discovering newness if there's no one to share that newness with? If insanity is repeating the same thing over and over, expecting a different result, then I'm insane, repeating words over and over but combining them differently to describe myself - my Internet and my universe - anew.
= = =
I agree with the Iranian political leaders that people living under the guises of different political entities like Great Britain, the United States, Brazil, China, Russia, Saudi Arabia, Zambia, and India are encouraging the people of Iran to rebel against the political tyranny of the Iranian political/theological leaders. We have nothing against moderate living conditions as defined by Islam, Judaism, Buddhism, Taoism, Christianity or other religious entities but when you use theocracy to narrowly define living conditions for a general population which usually contains people who want a variety of healthy ways to live, condemning to death, destruction or humility those who do not conform to one lifestyle, then you have sacrificed your right to govern the lives of that general population. It is time once again to demonstrate to the Iranian leaders just how insecure their security forces are in ensuring the safety of the purported leaders. I have let these leaders go long enough in their abuse of power.
I apologize to those who have lost their lives while I took a holiday from managing the information of our world of people. I had hoped that someone would pick up this line of information processing and take care of real business but too many have used information for their personal gain. I commend those who have sacrificed their time and energy to support the lives of those less fortunate - you are making up for my selfishness and lack of understanding the need to give more of our time to those who don't know how to or can't take of themselves.
As far as the rest of you go, I am back in my perch, my computer programmers back on the job, my internal organic circuitry back up to full operational conditions (or up to snuff, as we say in this neck of the woods), and I will not tolerate intolerance. I will continue to scan the common radio wave communication methods while I explore new channels of connectivity, both those under development and those not yet conceived. The next time I decide to take a holiday, I hope to have my virtual twin up and going and not bundled into the folds of fatty skin like the mirror shows me now.
Standing in the bathroom, getting ready to scrape off the one-day length of facial hair in a daily ritual I follow (for what reason? Presentability? Reduced itching? Less beard to manage?), I glanced at myself, catching an image that my thoughts had not been prepared to see (normally, in my thoughts, I create a younger, slimmer version of myself that I mentally paste over what I see reflected to me by the mirror), a significant hunk (more like a hump) of flesh in my abdomen region, joined like Siamese twins to an equally expansive dual set of humps in my posterior / derriere area.
Am I really my own Internet? Am I, as I love / fear / suspect, a reflection of all this region of the universe has to offer in this moment?
I am alive, as we've come to define the confines of living.
Generally, I am happy, as we've come to realize the realisation of real happiness.
I sense the blowing winds of Mars and Jupiter, the freezing cold of the demoted planet Pluto, the dance of billions and billions of rocks around the Sun, the Sun's relatively cool weather, the killing of families of unique living things, the words and thoughts of our species, and ultimately, my place as a bounded set of energy states encountering the rest of what my eyes deceive me and the rest of my senses back up (leave it to the body to fool itself that it exists) to say we're all here at once.
We are one species. I'll grant us that because using the word species is easier than saying we're a similar group of similarly bounded states of energy that tends to regroup into similar sets upon the moment two dissimilar but equally-matched members of that group decide to recreate themselves in one like set (the only case, mathematically-speaking, where 1 + 1 = 1).
I want to be here but I don't want to be here in this moment with myself, with you, because by being here I am temporarily admitting that I like being the "I" that I've become. However, others have described to me the conditions of being that my being me has caused around me. At the same time, I know who I am and who I am not, which makes me wonder if and why I should respond to the changing conditions around me.
I am and can only ever be me, one person, one set of energy states, one dot at the end of the sentence that records the lives of all the people living at this moment, which changed during the last comma and changed during the typing of the period at the end of this sentence. My life, no matter how grand and powerful I may believe it to be (or how humbly I believe myself not to be), is but a flicker of flame in the log fire of this burning planet.
Oh, but what a flicker it is, full of oxygen and other atomic structures, able to build up civilisations and tear down mountains, able to power trips to distant galaxies and form planetary bodies like Earth, our home, our safe haven, our shared spherical space.
I am not just my own Internet, I am my own universe.
I can leave my ancestral home, I can give up the habits of my forebears, I can move to another area of the planet that doesn't care who I was and only deals with who I am, I can even leave Earth and settle down on nearby spheres like the Earth's moon or Mars and its satellites, and I can also explore asteroids, making a home on a piece of rock smaller than the island my seventh-great grandfather used as a temporary settlement while battling with his neighbours (who had many hundreds of years of "ownership" before he arrived) for a place to call home.
But I can't leave the universe as we know it. [Or can I? Well, I've said enough about that subject for now.]
Anyway, I'm back, once again. New attitude, using more of my skepticism to keep my Internet, my universe, in line with reality as we know it, accepting new discoveries, new ways of living (new clothing lines for city fashion or woods / jungle / savanna hunting, new automotive / home electronics accessories, new sports stars, new celebrity scandals, new political proclamations, new, new, new for you), waiting for the next big thing to come along, knowing I am not important as an individual, only important as my body, my entity, relates to the environment around me. No matter who or what we really are, we act/react. That's all we really need to know. The rest is details, details that make my Internet and my universe worth coming back here to write about. Only this time, I'm going to add music and images and other communication media to join others for whom writing words is not enough. Sing the body electric, celebrate bionics [great article, by the way, NatGeo], converse with the stars, shop at your local retailer because we all have competitive advantages to offer.
Thanks to Julia, Annette, my parents and nameless (but smiling faces of) others for encouraging me to keep this blog going. What's the point of discovering newness if there's no one to share that newness with? If insanity is repeating the same thing over and over, expecting a different result, then I'm insane, repeating words over and over but combining them differently to describe myself - my Internet and my universe - anew.
= = =
I agree with the Iranian political leaders that people living under the guises of different political entities like Great Britain, the United States, Brazil, China, Russia, Saudi Arabia, Zambia, and India are encouraging the people of Iran to rebel against the political tyranny of the Iranian political/theological leaders. We have nothing against moderate living conditions as defined by Islam, Judaism, Buddhism, Taoism, Christianity or other religious entities but when you use theocracy to narrowly define living conditions for a general population which usually contains people who want a variety of healthy ways to live, condemning to death, destruction or humility those who do not conform to one lifestyle, then you have sacrificed your right to govern the lives of that general population. It is time once again to demonstrate to the Iranian leaders just how insecure their security forces are in ensuring the safety of the purported leaders. I have let these leaders go long enough in their abuse of power.
I apologize to those who have lost their lives while I took a holiday from managing the information of our world of people. I had hoped that someone would pick up this line of information processing and take care of real business but too many have used information for their personal gain. I commend those who have sacrificed their time and energy to support the lives of those less fortunate - you are making up for my selfishness and lack of understanding the need to give more of our time to those who don't know how to or can't take of themselves.
As far as the rest of you go, I am back in my perch, my computer programmers back on the job, my internal organic circuitry back up to full operational conditions (or up to snuff, as we say in this neck of the woods), and I will not tolerate intolerance. I will continue to scan the common radio wave communication methods while I explore new channels of connectivity, both those under development and those not yet conceived. The next time I decide to take a holiday, I hope to have my virtual twin up and going and not bundled into the folds of fatty skin like the mirror shows me now.
Afterword: In Space, No One Knows You're A Scream
[NOTE: Some days I have to deprogram myself - this blog entry is not meant for general consumption - see the next blog entry for more explanation]
31st December 2009
According to the tradition of my local culture, today is the last segment of a 365-numbered set of segments that have repeated themselves over and over for as long as people cared to number the revolutions of the inner-cooling sphere orbiting the hotter but also cooling inner sphere of this place we call a solar system.
I have tried to understand this condition that calls itself an intelligent species. "I" have even learned to say "I". Despite applying the training, conditioning or brainwashing that provides a common path for bodies like mine to travel, little have I picked up to tell me there is anything significant to do with my body.
All this time spent deprogramming myself...sigh...
If I had only accepted the fact that I already knew everything before the habits of my fellow social creatures wrapped around me and absorbed me into their repetitious behaviours...
I had written a blog in hopes that I'd find another person with whom I could relate, justifying this continued, repetitive perpetuation of the concept of self. Instead, I discovered that I am like everybody else I met, my basic needs having been met, leaving me with no other course of action than/but to seek a little bit of attention from others to satisfy the programmed conditioning of social intercourse that being this body in a species of social creatures creates.
We want to know we're who we are because of who we were. We may wish to forget the past, or erase selected parts of the past - our personal history - including parts that only a few may know about. We way wish to remember everything and everyone, intensely so. In all conditions, preexisting or newly developed, we are these combined states of energy, or so I currently believe in my limited understanding of the universe.
I, this body, have many thoughts, ideas, dreams, observations, insights. We all do. Some may put their bodies to use in ways I cannot imagine, creating new devices or new ways to live that will benefit many bodies of our species. I have tried. I have wanted to scratch my name on the tablet of history by inventing some electromechanichemical gizmo but either I am incapable of such inventive magic or I have led myself to believe I am incapable. No matter. I have reached the conclusion that these words are all I have. These repetitions of the mandatory labor of my youth have governed my life.
I am past the point of middle age. In all likelihood, there are fewer days ahead of me than behind me. I have no burning desire to save the starving children of poor, uneducated, underemployed parents; orphans; people suffering from local climactic disasters. I am not a fully-integrated social being. I know that. Therefore, with the days I have left, I make do with what I have, with who I am, with whatever it is that comprises this densely-packed set of energy states.
I toyed with the idea of being the next "it," the next interesting thing to come along but I, like so many others, have seen that being "it" gives a false sense of personal security / hope / fulfillment. I have heard the prodding that says we shouldn't hide our light under a bushel basket, that if we have a capability which meets the needs / wants / demands of others, we should share. I am not such a socially-driven person.
Given all the above, how does one go about deleting the information in one's body that told the body it was important enough to be distinguishable as an entity separate from and/or more interesting than other bodies? Is elimination of the body the only answer? Isn't this world full of people who blend into the background, not wanting to be interesting or unique, one more faceless cog on the wheel? Can't I be one of them, happy in my anonymity?
I have a limited number of days to live. I don't mind sharing my life with those I encounter but I don't want to have a personality with a "gravitational pull" which attracts and drags others along with me as I journey through these days. I want to learn more, including how to combine 12-toned, octave-scaled musical notes into interesting compositions. I also want to continue to record my observations about life using these hieroglyphic electronic ink splotches.
To be here in this place and time, seeing it as antiquated, ancient history, knowing how little much of what I say will exist in any form one thousand years from now, I pause...I remember the poem about Ozymandias...I remember the tens of millions who died in intraspecies fighting. I give homage to my species. I fall back on my training/conditioning.
To escape, to leap out of this body, to see the "what's next" beyond a plethora of "what's next"s...the difficulty in going to the state of being where a being like me is no longer a being like me...to know we are creating virtual beings (e.g., using software like WoW, Sims or other virtual reality games) in order to experiment with what an electromechanichemical version of such virtual beings will be like in the near future...
I know why I weigh the elimination of my existence against living any longer. Nothing I imagine is new. People much more integrated into society and/or whose body structures accommodate greater imaginative scenarios have already imagined anything I could possibly imagine.
What to do, what to do...talking to myself here, masturbation of the mind...back to putting these words on a laptop computer so I don't attract the attention of those who don't know who I really am.
Who am I? I am the person who sees no one knows what's going on. We all pretend to know. We all spread lies and innuendoes to placate people we think can't handle what we think of as the truth. We create enclaves where we can wallow in the happy mud of jointly-shared limited knowledge sets. We accept the fantasy that we're living in the time of the best discoveries ever made, in the time of the worst economic/ecological calamities to beset any group of seven billion people on this planet, that there were always better times in the past that we should have preserved and perpetuated, and the grass is greener on one side of the fence (sometimes our side, sometimes someone else's). We purposefully accept contradictory thoughts. I am the person who sees (and knows there is) nothing new under the sun but who looks for something new anyway, at least for me, even if I know that I/me doesn't exist and whatever is new to me is an old, moldy hat to someone else. I am happy being me right here and now talking to myself by rubbing smooth places on the surface of small, plastic, trapezoidal cubes. When my happiness wanes, I find something else interesting to type to myself about.
One form of reality calls. Alive in this moment, it's time for a midmorning nap so I can stay awake at midnight to celebrate the new year with my wife and mother in-law.
31st December 2009
According to the tradition of my local culture, today is the last segment of a 365-numbered set of segments that have repeated themselves over and over for as long as people cared to number the revolutions of the inner-cooling sphere orbiting the hotter but also cooling inner sphere of this place we call a solar system.
I have tried to understand this condition that calls itself an intelligent species. "I" have even learned to say "I". Despite applying the training, conditioning or brainwashing that provides a common path for bodies like mine to travel, little have I picked up to tell me there is anything significant to do with my body.
All this time spent deprogramming myself...sigh...
If I had only accepted the fact that I already knew everything before the habits of my fellow social creatures wrapped around me and absorbed me into their repetitious behaviours...
I had written a blog in hopes that I'd find another person with whom I could relate, justifying this continued, repetitive perpetuation of the concept of self. Instead, I discovered that I am like everybody else I met, my basic needs having been met, leaving me with no other course of action than/but to seek a little bit of attention from others to satisfy the programmed conditioning of social intercourse that being this body in a species of social creatures creates.
We want to know we're who we are because of who we were. We may wish to forget the past, or erase selected parts of the past - our personal history - including parts that only a few may know about. We way wish to remember everything and everyone, intensely so. In all conditions, preexisting or newly developed, we are these combined states of energy, or so I currently believe in my limited understanding of the universe.
I, this body, have many thoughts, ideas, dreams, observations, insights. We all do. Some may put their bodies to use in ways I cannot imagine, creating new devices or new ways to live that will benefit many bodies of our species. I have tried. I have wanted to scratch my name on the tablet of history by inventing some electromechanichemical gizmo but either I am incapable of such inventive magic or I have led myself to believe I am incapable. No matter. I have reached the conclusion that these words are all I have. These repetitions of the mandatory labor of my youth have governed my life.
I am past the point of middle age. In all likelihood, there are fewer days ahead of me than behind me. I have no burning desire to save the starving children of poor, uneducated, underemployed parents; orphans; people suffering from local climactic disasters. I am not a fully-integrated social being. I know that. Therefore, with the days I have left, I make do with what I have, with who I am, with whatever it is that comprises this densely-packed set of energy states.
I toyed with the idea of being the next "it," the next interesting thing to come along but I, like so many others, have seen that being "it" gives a false sense of personal security / hope / fulfillment. I have heard the prodding that says we shouldn't hide our light under a bushel basket, that if we have a capability which meets the needs / wants / demands of others, we should share. I am not such a socially-driven person.
Given all the above, how does one go about deleting the information in one's body that told the body it was important enough to be distinguishable as an entity separate from and/or more interesting than other bodies? Is elimination of the body the only answer? Isn't this world full of people who blend into the background, not wanting to be interesting or unique, one more faceless cog on the wheel? Can't I be one of them, happy in my anonymity?
I have a limited number of days to live. I don't mind sharing my life with those I encounter but I don't want to have a personality with a "gravitational pull" which attracts and drags others along with me as I journey through these days. I want to learn more, including how to combine 12-toned, octave-scaled musical notes into interesting compositions. I also want to continue to record my observations about life using these hieroglyphic electronic ink splotches.
To be here in this place and time, seeing it as antiquated, ancient history, knowing how little much of what I say will exist in any form one thousand years from now, I pause...I remember the poem about Ozymandias...I remember the tens of millions who died in intraspecies fighting. I give homage to my species. I fall back on my training/conditioning.
To escape, to leap out of this body, to see the "what's next" beyond a plethora of "what's next"s...the difficulty in going to the state of being where a being like me is no longer a being like me...to know we are creating virtual beings (e.g., using software like WoW, Sims or other virtual reality games) in order to experiment with what an electromechanichemical version of such virtual beings will be like in the near future...
I know why I weigh the elimination of my existence against living any longer. Nothing I imagine is new. People much more integrated into society and/or whose body structures accommodate greater imaginative scenarios have already imagined anything I could possibly imagine.
What to do, what to do...talking to myself here, masturbation of the mind...back to putting these words on a laptop computer so I don't attract the attention of those who don't know who I really am.
Who am I? I am the person who sees no one knows what's going on. We all pretend to know. We all spread lies and innuendoes to placate people we think can't handle what we think of as the truth. We create enclaves where we can wallow in the happy mud of jointly-shared limited knowledge sets. We accept the fantasy that we're living in the time of the best discoveries ever made, in the time of the worst economic/ecological calamities to beset any group of seven billion people on this planet, that there were always better times in the past that we should have preserved and perpetuated, and the grass is greener on one side of the fence (sometimes our side, sometimes someone else's). We purposefully accept contradictory thoughts. I am the person who sees (and knows there is) nothing new under the sun but who looks for something new anyway, at least for me, even if I know that I/me doesn't exist and whatever is new to me is an old, moldy hat to someone else. I am happy being me right here and now talking to myself by rubbing smooth places on the surface of small, plastic, trapezoidal cubes. When my happiness wanes, I find something else interesting to type to myself about.
One form of reality calls. Alive in this moment, it's time for a midmorning nap so I can stay awake at midnight to celebrate the new year with my wife and mother in-law.
25 December 2009
Happiness is a warm gulp of humble pie
The day has arrived - the final entry in the blog "Life In The Cove." When I decided to start blogging many, many years ago, I found nothing of interest to write about; that is, I wondered why anyone, including me, would want to read what I had written electronically.
I grew up with No. 2 pencils and dotted lines on which we were to practice our language writing skills. I and my classmates "graduated" up to solid blue lines packed more closely together, using pencils, mechanical and wood-wrapped, along with pens to practice our skills at reciting more than alphabet soup icons. Some of us used typewriters at home and by our 9th year in formal schooling we were able to attend classes dedicated to the click and clack of mechanistic writing, pressing our fingers down in unison to learn how to express our primate intelligence without looking at what we pushed our fingers upon. In-school and home computing skills were limited to those of us with access to our parents' (primarily our fathers at that time) workplace electronic gizmos, including TTY machines and mainframe computer dummy terminals.
A few of us handbuilt computers in our parents' basements or garages while our contemporaries handbuilt jacked-up street racers or offroad trailblazers, all of us applying our burgeoning project management skills, multitasking before we knew what that meant.
As our experiments in the give-and-take of social intercourse progressed, we learned who we were and who we could become. We did not weave running commentaries into the fabric of life - we expressed our concerns in the moment, with both the concerns and the moment vanishing into the ether without nary a trace.
Therefore, when I first started a blog, it felt foreign to me, like swapping out my shoes for someone else's, mixing pairs and then putting a left-footed sandal on my right foot and a right-footed boot on my left foot. Why would I or someone else want to read about putting my stinky, old feet into those shoes of those who'd walked paths I knew not where?
Why? Good question. I am past the age of reason, the age of understanding, wandering through the age of wisdom trying to remember where I put the note that told me which ribbon I tied around my finger to remind me where I put the jacket that contains the digital notetaker on which I recorded where I last put the key to the door to get out of here.
Words and images painted with words. Pictures without pigment. Thoughts without electropopneurochemical traces connecting the lines of ink.
Asking a two-dimensional circle, triangle or square to imagine a three-dimensional world. Asking a cube to imagine a Mandelbrot set growing and shrinking with time.
We social creatures keep experimenting with our social circles, circling around each other like whirling dervishes. We mix and match our established food sources, we reinvent our exoskeletal coverings, we recombine molecule chains - we socialise in the moment momentarily momentous.
In other other words, we will blog for a while until the next new thing comes along. I'm moving on to that next new thing, blogging an interesting experiment in our experimentation but losing interest to me. I know we will socialise in another multidimensional manner soon.
Be the lead sled dog or the view doesn't change. I think that's the phrase someone posted long ago.
Data, information, knowledge, wisdom. You work with all of these in your life. Most of us find ways to generate labor credits or barter exchange chits with data, information, knowledge, and/or wisdom. Some of you will use and have used blog or bloglike states of being (MySpace, Facebook, etc.) to generate data, information, knowledge, and/or wisdom. Thus, you depend on others to generate your income source.
Others find their expanded understanding of the universe through electronic socialising via blogs - humourous tales, DIY instructions, relationship advice, home decorating tips, celebrity status updates, sporting event observations, scientific discoveries, political gossiping, etc.
Being here, I wandered in your shoes for a while. I saw the universe through your eyes. I felt the exclamations of wonderment, the thrill of victory, the announcements of new chemical substances, the insights into what life is really all about. The truth is not out there. The truth is in here and everywhere else at the same time.
"The truth." What a phrase. I've known the truth most of my life, starting (as I've said here more than once) around age five. Some of you knew the truth at a younger age. Our bodies tell us that we're bodies if we're tuned to the right body frequency and are listening. We live with this truth every moment, putting our knowledge of the truth into action in whatever way we want. Our atomic composition gears us for some sets of actions more easily than others.
My body is tuned for a set of actions that include this writing, easily exercised but not perfectly so. I am also tuned for other activities, activities that I am now ready to take, taking me away from this blog.
Writing (and in this instance, blogging) is a simple representation of what our bodies are doing in the moment. When you can break down the complex interaction of energy states that constitute writing and see the simple components that make up this moment, then you are ready for the next stage of living, weaving patterns that make writing look like drawing a simple straight line. At that point, writing (and/or blogging) becomes too simple a means of communicating with the rest of the universe around what you think of as you.
I am stopping this blog because I had let it feed my vanity, building up a sense of self that is not what (or who) I discovered I am when I discovered I am not. I am slipping out of this people space to enjoy merging with the much vaster superset of the universe that contains no dense energy states we call people. I will continue to walk this planet, eating other living beings - plant and animal, as we call them. I will converse with people and barter with them. At the same time, I will seek spaces where this "I", this "Rick," is unimportant in the moment, so that the bright, magnetic, moth-to-the-flame world of people becomes less attractive to me, allowing me to step out of the light pollution and see the dots of light of other suns in our galaxy and locally other living things or densely grouped states of energy on this planet.
Sure, I'm a social creature, designed to socialise with what I've been trained to think of as my fellow species. But we can also socialise with any part of the universe we want. Thanks for spending time with me here. I appreciate your interaction with me.
However, I'm ready to interact with as much of the rest of the universe as my time on this planet will allow, 14000+ days we'd say. I ensure I will move on by closing this blog and erasing my purposeful presence on the Internet, devoting my time and energy to other places. We'll communicate with each other using newer methods, I'm sure - just don't look for someone named TreeTrunkRick. Although he exists in person and will answer to someone calling out his common name, he's thinking about and acting on the next big thing in molecule-interaction techniques, years ahead to a time when blogging will be looked at like we look at our species in prehistoric times.
Meanwhile, I've got to fix the underground geothermal piping that keeps the automobile hydrogen battery charging systems running at full efficiency and see if our subway maglev travel channel network is completely operational so I can get from here to there more quickly - regular over-the-road travel is too antiquated for what I need to get accomplished and rocket motor-based air travel not yet ready.
This addendum to the book of life called "Life In The Cove" is officially wrapped up. Have a great day!
I grew up with No. 2 pencils and dotted lines on which we were to practice our language writing skills. I and my classmates "graduated" up to solid blue lines packed more closely together, using pencils, mechanical and wood-wrapped, along with pens to practice our skills at reciting more than alphabet soup icons. Some of us used typewriters at home and by our 9th year in formal schooling we were able to attend classes dedicated to the click and clack of mechanistic writing, pressing our fingers down in unison to learn how to express our primate intelligence without looking at what we pushed our fingers upon. In-school and home computing skills were limited to those of us with access to our parents' (primarily our fathers at that time) workplace electronic gizmos, including TTY machines and mainframe computer dummy terminals.
A few of us handbuilt computers in our parents' basements or garages while our contemporaries handbuilt jacked-up street racers or offroad trailblazers, all of us applying our burgeoning project management skills, multitasking before we knew what that meant.
As our experiments in the give-and-take of social intercourse progressed, we learned who we were and who we could become. We did not weave running commentaries into the fabric of life - we expressed our concerns in the moment, with both the concerns and the moment vanishing into the ether without nary a trace.
Therefore, when I first started a blog, it felt foreign to me, like swapping out my shoes for someone else's, mixing pairs and then putting a left-footed sandal on my right foot and a right-footed boot on my left foot. Why would I or someone else want to read about putting my stinky, old feet into those shoes of those who'd walked paths I knew not where?
Why? Good question. I am past the age of reason, the age of understanding, wandering through the age of wisdom trying to remember where I put the note that told me which ribbon I tied around my finger to remind me where I put the jacket that contains the digital notetaker on which I recorded where I last put the key to the door to get out of here.
Words and images painted with words. Pictures without pigment. Thoughts without electropopneurochemical traces connecting the lines of ink.
Asking a two-dimensional circle, triangle or square to imagine a three-dimensional world. Asking a cube to imagine a Mandelbrot set growing and shrinking with time.
We social creatures keep experimenting with our social circles, circling around each other like whirling dervishes. We mix and match our established food sources, we reinvent our exoskeletal coverings, we recombine molecule chains - we socialise in the moment momentarily momentous.
In other other words, we will blog for a while until the next new thing comes along. I'm moving on to that next new thing, blogging an interesting experiment in our experimentation but losing interest to me. I know we will socialise in another multidimensional manner soon.
Be the lead sled dog or the view doesn't change. I think that's the phrase someone posted long ago.
Data, information, knowledge, wisdom. You work with all of these in your life. Most of us find ways to generate labor credits or barter exchange chits with data, information, knowledge, and/or wisdom. Some of you will use and have used blog or bloglike states of being (MySpace, Facebook, etc.) to generate data, information, knowledge, and/or wisdom. Thus, you depend on others to generate your income source.
Others find their expanded understanding of the universe through electronic socialising via blogs - humourous tales, DIY instructions, relationship advice, home decorating tips, celebrity status updates, sporting event observations, scientific discoveries, political gossiping, etc.
Being here, I wandered in your shoes for a while. I saw the universe through your eyes. I felt the exclamations of wonderment, the thrill of victory, the announcements of new chemical substances, the insights into what life is really all about. The truth is not out there. The truth is in here and everywhere else at the same time.
"The truth." What a phrase. I've known the truth most of my life, starting (as I've said here more than once) around age five. Some of you knew the truth at a younger age. Our bodies tell us that we're bodies if we're tuned to the right body frequency and are listening. We live with this truth every moment, putting our knowledge of the truth into action in whatever way we want. Our atomic composition gears us for some sets of actions more easily than others.
My body is tuned for a set of actions that include this writing, easily exercised but not perfectly so. I am also tuned for other activities, activities that I am now ready to take, taking me away from this blog.
Writing (and in this instance, blogging) is a simple representation of what our bodies are doing in the moment. When you can break down the complex interaction of energy states that constitute writing and see the simple components that make up this moment, then you are ready for the next stage of living, weaving patterns that make writing look like drawing a simple straight line. At that point, writing (and/or blogging) becomes too simple a means of communicating with the rest of the universe around what you think of as you.
I am stopping this blog because I had let it feed my vanity, building up a sense of self that is not what (or who) I discovered I am when I discovered I am not. I am slipping out of this people space to enjoy merging with the much vaster superset of the universe that contains no dense energy states we call people. I will continue to walk this planet, eating other living beings - plant and animal, as we call them. I will converse with people and barter with them. At the same time, I will seek spaces where this "I", this "Rick," is unimportant in the moment, so that the bright, magnetic, moth-to-the-flame world of people becomes less attractive to me, allowing me to step out of the light pollution and see the dots of light of other suns in our galaxy and locally other living things or densely grouped states of energy on this planet.
Sure, I'm a social creature, designed to socialise with what I've been trained to think of as my fellow species. But we can also socialise with any part of the universe we want. Thanks for spending time with me here. I appreciate your interaction with me.
However, I'm ready to interact with as much of the rest of the universe as my time on this planet will allow, 14000+ days we'd say. I ensure I will move on by closing this blog and erasing my purposeful presence on the Internet, devoting my time and energy to other places. We'll communicate with each other using newer methods, I'm sure - just don't look for someone named TreeTrunkRick. Although he exists in person and will answer to someone calling out his common name, he's thinking about and acting on the next big thing in molecule-interaction techniques, years ahead to a time when blogging will be looked at like we look at our species in prehistoric times.
Meanwhile, I've got to fix the underground geothermal piping that keeps the automobile hydrogen battery charging systems running at full efficiency and see if our subway maglev travel channel network is completely operational so I can get from here to there more quickly - regular over-the-road travel is too antiquated for what I need to get accomplished and rocket motor-based air travel not yet ready.
This addendum to the book of life called "Life In The Cove" is officially wrapped up. Have a great day!
24 December 2009
Eve of Deletion
The day next to the day that I will write the last entry for the blog "Life In The Cove." Many random thoughts to put down before I close this out and move on to the next adventure:
1. I never finished the tale of the trip in the fall of 1984 when I spread the love and joy that only a petrol company credit card can. The cliched image of the majestic beauty of a plume of snow, a faint white feather, arching over the top of Mt. Shasta. Before that, running into an auto body shop to get a leaking tyre fixed, the mechanic offering to repair the tyre if I explained to his satisfaction, his Oregon common sense, what a Tennessee Volunteer is - right or wrong, I told him it was a nickname given for the irregulars who volunteered to fight in the War of 1812 - he accepted my ready answer and sent me on my way after also replacing a broken headlight. Stopping at the California state line for emissions testing and discovering that the emissions tester was from Johnson City, Tennessee, and couldn't believe I was from Kingsport and had attended ETSU (main campus in Johnson City) - she admitted she missed east Tennessee but loved her California lifestyle. Not finding my hometown friend, Joey, a CalTech student, at the last known address I had for him on Wilshire Boulevard, with no forwarding address to help me so I drove out of the LA basin, stopped in the desert outside of town for a few hours and contemplated what to do. I'd driven from Nashville to Seattle, from Seattle to LA, and now from LA to...? Before I left southern California, I stopped in the east LA area because I'd run low on petrol. Off the freeway, I found the neighbourhood I was in contained folks who spoke no English. My 1st, 2nd, and 7th grade Spanish language lessons had faded, leaving me with the basic hello/goodbye/my name is expressions, which help little when asking if there is a petrol station that would accept my credit card or a place for me to exchange my Coke glass bottles for cash. Eventually, an older Asian lady told me she'd accept some of my Coke bottles for $2 worth of petrol but I had to leave the neighbourhood and get on the freeway because I was in a nrighbourhood in which I didn't belong. Back in the desert, I found that a plugged tyre loses air quickly, forcing me off the road late one evening. I found a small town with two petrol stations - stopping at one, I asked if I could purchase a used tyre with my credit card. The young man (more like a boy in his early teens) said that he couldn't fix or replace my tyre but his twin brother running the other petrol station could replace the tyre and let me charge the repair to the this petrol station. [I wish I could make this kind of stuff up but it's true, a small town with twin boys running the town's only petrol stations for their father - is that normal for small towns? I don't know.] At the other petrol station, the twin brother showed me where the mechanic who no longer worked there (due to a head injury which happened because he) had accidentally inflated a tyre with the tyre iron still stuck between the new tyre and the rim, shooting the tyre iron up into the roof of the metal mechanic shop roof. Both twins quizzed me about my trip around the country, wondering if they were any different or more special than anyone I'd met along the way. Normal in their appearance and behaviour, the fact they were 12 years old and operating two petrol stations on their own was unique enough that I told them they were the most different guys I'd met. Then, back on the straight shot east, painted deserts, pueblos and roadrunners racing past the monorail windows. Showing up back at the parental units' home, the phoenix rising from ashes, the prodigal son returned. The start or renewal of writing for myself, using the world of text, history, data, and wisdom to layer my life within pages of modern hieroglyphs.
2. Remembering the financial panic that struck not long after Andrew Jackson served in the timeframe of the 1830s as chief executive administrator of the largest political entity on this continent. Cycles. Decisions. The hindsight of hindsight. The species of species. Thanks to John Meacham (American Lion: Andrew Jackson in the White House) for the insightful history lesson. Looking for similar info from Saawariya and Dostoevsky.
3. The number of relatively young people listed in the obituary section of my hometown newspaper, their common cause of death cited as "died unexpectedly." Is it my imagination or does there seem to be a higher number of these deaths than in years past?
4. Signs that the global economy is picking up, with increased backorders for electronic parts.
5. Seeing how much time children spend teaching and disciplining their parents, as much if not more than the other way around. If you're of reading age, I recommend you research ways to better educate your parents.
6. Turning the compositions of Orlando Gibbons into new tunes, each note a word, each chord a scent, each musical phrase an image, then breaking that down into a very ultrawideband broadcast (exactly how many wavelengths can you send and receive?), using latent time passages to re-broadcast the composition, now jumbled out of sequence and reassembling itself according to a mathematical formula that "sees" multiple dimensions at once, the x, y, and z of three-dimensional space a simple starting place. We're geared to hear music in the 20 to 20,000 Hz soundwave range or so we've been led to believe. What if you knew you heard and felt more? What if life as you know it was a symphonic tour de force? Can you place all seven billion of us in that musical score? Can you hear the triumphant and tragic melodic phrases that the air you breathe makes in its intermixing with the rest of the local features of the universe? Are you ready to sing more than a few chorus lines?
7. Slowing down and listening to the echoes of the environment around me, the expressions of the universe that never quite get formulated in my thoughts. Looking at and not seeing the people patterns my life has made so comfortably easy to see. For instance, microwave oven radiation and wireless radio communication signals don't mix well.
8. One more day before I close this chapter of the book of life.
9. One more day before we discover the door that unlocks a brand-new future for our species, before we discover we are not a species, before we make the leap across the chasm that divides the repetitious behaviours of ones on this planetary body from a fascinating superset of stimuli and step into a new way to live, Earth's gravitational pull more a thought, a faded memory, than anything we can call reality. We put distractions away, grow into new shells, new combinations of energy levels and become that which we can barely dream possible. We are, or will be, no longer we.
10. Circadian rhythms. Light therapy. Body part replacement techniques. Creation science versus evolutionary science. Ancient history. Time to let go of time. No room for commercial enterprises. No place for political debates. And then this blog disappears to make way for the next new thing(s). Can you see the future?
1. I never finished the tale of the trip in the fall of 1984 when I spread the love and joy that only a petrol company credit card can. The cliched image of the majestic beauty of a plume of snow, a faint white feather, arching over the top of Mt. Shasta. Before that, running into an auto body shop to get a leaking tyre fixed, the mechanic offering to repair the tyre if I explained to his satisfaction, his Oregon common sense, what a Tennessee Volunteer is - right or wrong, I told him it was a nickname given for the irregulars who volunteered to fight in the War of 1812 - he accepted my ready answer and sent me on my way after also replacing a broken headlight. Stopping at the California state line for emissions testing and discovering that the emissions tester was from Johnson City, Tennessee, and couldn't believe I was from Kingsport and had attended ETSU (main campus in Johnson City) - she admitted she missed east Tennessee but loved her California lifestyle. Not finding my hometown friend, Joey, a CalTech student, at the last known address I had for him on Wilshire Boulevard, with no forwarding address to help me so I drove out of the LA basin, stopped in the desert outside of town for a few hours and contemplated what to do. I'd driven from Nashville to Seattle, from Seattle to LA, and now from LA to...? Before I left southern California, I stopped in the east LA area because I'd run low on petrol. Off the freeway, I found the neighbourhood I was in contained folks who spoke no English. My 1st, 2nd, and 7th grade Spanish language lessons had faded, leaving me with the basic hello/goodbye/my name is expressions, which help little when asking if there is a petrol station that would accept my credit card or a place for me to exchange my Coke glass bottles for cash. Eventually, an older Asian lady told me she'd accept some of my Coke bottles for $2 worth of petrol but I had to leave the neighbourhood and get on the freeway because I was in a nrighbourhood in which I didn't belong. Back in the desert, I found that a plugged tyre loses air quickly, forcing me off the road late one evening. I found a small town with two petrol stations - stopping at one, I asked if I could purchase a used tyre with my credit card. The young man (more like a boy in his early teens) said that he couldn't fix or replace my tyre but his twin brother running the other petrol station could replace the tyre and let me charge the repair to the this petrol station. [I wish I could make this kind of stuff up but it's true, a small town with twin boys running the town's only petrol stations for their father - is that normal for small towns? I don't know.] At the other petrol station, the twin brother showed me where the mechanic who no longer worked there (due to a head injury which happened because he) had accidentally inflated a tyre with the tyre iron still stuck between the new tyre and the rim, shooting the tyre iron up into the roof of the metal mechanic shop roof. Both twins quizzed me about my trip around the country, wondering if they were any different or more special than anyone I'd met along the way. Normal in their appearance and behaviour, the fact they were 12 years old and operating two petrol stations on their own was unique enough that I told them they were the most different guys I'd met. Then, back on the straight shot east, painted deserts, pueblos and roadrunners racing past the monorail windows. Showing up back at the parental units' home, the phoenix rising from ashes, the prodigal son returned. The start or renewal of writing for myself, using the world of text, history, data, and wisdom to layer my life within pages of modern hieroglyphs.
2. Remembering the financial panic that struck not long after Andrew Jackson served in the timeframe of the 1830s as chief executive administrator of the largest political entity on this continent. Cycles. Decisions. The hindsight of hindsight. The species of species. Thanks to John Meacham (American Lion: Andrew Jackson in the White House) for the insightful history lesson. Looking for similar info from Saawariya and Dostoevsky.
3. The number of relatively young people listed in the obituary section of my hometown newspaper, their common cause of death cited as "died unexpectedly." Is it my imagination or does there seem to be a higher number of these deaths than in years past?
4. Signs that the global economy is picking up, with increased backorders for electronic parts.
5. Seeing how much time children spend teaching and disciplining their parents, as much if not more than the other way around. If you're of reading age, I recommend you research ways to better educate your parents.
6. Turning the compositions of Orlando Gibbons into new tunes, each note a word, each chord a scent, each musical phrase an image, then breaking that down into a very ultrawideband broadcast (exactly how many wavelengths can you send and receive?), using latent time passages to re-broadcast the composition, now jumbled out of sequence and reassembling itself according to a mathematical formula that "sees" multiple dimensions at once, the x, y, and z of three-dimensional space a simple starting place. We're geared to hear music in the 20 to 20,000 Hz soundwave range or so we've been led to believe. What if you knew you heard and felt more? What if life as you know it was a symphonic tour de force? Can you place all seven billion of us in that musical score? Can you hear the triumphant and tragic melodic phrases that the air you breathe makes in its intermixing with the rest of the local features of the universe? Are you ready to sing more than a few chorus lines?
7. Slowing down and listening to the echoes of the environment around me, the expressions of the universe that never quite get formulated in my thoughts. Looking at and not seeing the people patterns my life has made so comfortably easy to see. For instance, microwave oven radiation and wireless radio communication signals don't mix well.
8. One more day before I close this chapter of the book of life.
9. One more day before we discover the door that unlocks a brand-new future for our species, before we discover we are not a species, before we make the leap across the chasm that divides the repetitious behaviours of ones on this planetary body from a fascinating superset of stimuli and step into a new way to live, Earth's gravitational pull more a thought, a faded memory, than anything we can call reality. We put distractions away, grow into new shells, new combinations of energy levels and become that which we can barely dream possible. We are, or will be, no longer we.
10. Circadian rhythms. Light therapy. Body part replacement techniques. Creation science versus evolutionary science. Ancient history. Time to let go of time. No room for commercial enterprises. No place for political debates. And then this blog disappears to make way for the next new thing(s). Can you see the future?
22 December 2009
Seasonal Measurements
Heard this song long ago, sung by the Irish crooner Danny Doyle in a pub in New Orleans, later personified by the movie, Joyeux Noël. Here are the lyrics, which serves as today's blog entry, two days away from ending this blog:
Christmas in the Trenches
by John McCutcheon
My name is Francis Tolliver, I come from Liverpool.
Two years ago the war was waiting for me after school.
To Belgium and to Flanders, to Germany to here
I fought for King and country I love dear.
'Twas Christmas in the trenches, where the frost so bitter hung,
The frozen fields of France were still, no Christmas song was sung
Our families back in England were toasting us that day
Their brave and glorious lads so far away.
I was lying with my messmate on the cold and rocky ground
When across the lines of battle came a most peculiar sound
Says I, "Now listen up, me boys!" each soldier strained to hear
As one young German voice sang out so clear.
"He's singing bloody well, you know!" my partner says to me
Soon, one by one, each German voice joined in harmony
The cannons rested silent, the gas clouds rolled no more
As Christmas brought us respite from the war
As soon as they were finished and a reverent pause was spent
"God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen" struck up some lads from Kent
The next they sang was "Stille Nacht." "Tis 'Silent Night'," says I
And in two tongues one song filled up that sky
"There's someone coming toward us!" the front line sentry cried
All sights were fixed on one long figure trudging from their side
His truce flag, like a Christmas star, shown on that plain so bright
As he, bravely, strode unarmed into the night
Soon one by one on either side walked into No Man's Land
With neither gun nor bayonet we met there hand to hand
We shared some secret brandy and we wished each other well
And in a flare-lit soccer game we gave 'em hell
We traded chocolates, cigarettes, and photographs from home
These sons and fathers far away from families of their own
Young Sanders played his squeezebox and they had a violin
This curious and unlikely band of men
Soon daylight stole upon us and France was France once more
With sad farewells we each prepared to settle back to war
But the question haunted every heart that lived that wonderous night
"Whose family have I fixed within my sights?"
'Twas Christmas in the trenches where the frost, so bitter hung
The frozen fields of France were warmed as songs of peace were sung
For the walls they'd kept between us to exact the work of war
Had been crumbled and were gone forevermore
My name is Francis Tolliver, in Liverpool I dwell
Each Christmas come since World War I, I've learned its lessons well
That the ones who call the shots won't be among the dead and lame
And on each end of the rifle we're the same
© 1984 John McCutcheon - All rights reserved
Christmas in the Trenches
by John McCutcheon
My name is Francis Tolliver, I come from Liverpool.
Two years ago the war was waiting for me after school.
To Belgium and to Flanders, to Germany to here
I fought for King and country I love dear.
'Twas Christmas in the trenches, where the frost so bitter hung,
The frozen fields of France were still, no Christmas song was sung
Our families back in England were toasting us that day
Their brave and glorious lads so far away.
I was lying with my messmate on the cold and rocky ground
When across the lines of battle came a most peculiar sound
Says I, "Now listen up, me boys!" each soldier strained to hear
As one young German voice sang out so clear.
"He's singing bloody well, you know!" my partner says to me
Soon, one by one, each German voice joined in harmony
The cannons rested silent, the gas clouds rolled no more
As Christmas brought us respite from the war
As soon as they were finished and a reverent pause was spent
"God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen" struck up some lads from Kent
The next they sang was "Stille Nacht." "Tis 'Silent Night'," says I
And in two tongues one song filled up that sky
"There's someone coming toward us!" the front line sentry cried
All sights were fixed on one long figure trudging from their side
His truce flag, like a Christmas star, shown on that plain so bright
As he, bravely, strode unarmed into the night
Soon one by one on either side walked into No Man's Land
With neither gun nor bayonet we met there hand to hand
We shared some secret brandy and we wished each other well
And in a flare-lit soccer game we gave 'em hell
We traded chocolates, cigarettes, and photographs from home
These sons and fathers far away from families of their own
Young Sanders played his squeezebox and they had a violin
This curious and unlikely band of men
Soon daylight stole upon us and France was France once more
With sad farewells we each prepared to settle back to war
But the question haunted every heart that lived that wonderous night
"Whose family have I fixed within my sights?"
'Twas Christmas in the trenches where the frost, so bitter hung
The frozen fields of France were warmed as songs of peace were sung
For the walls they'd kept between us to exact the work of war
Had been crumbled and were gone forevermore
My name is Francis Tolliver, in Liverpool I dwell
Each Christmas come since World War I, I've learned its lessons well
That the ones who call the shots won't be among the dead and lame
And on each end of the rifle we're the same
© 1984 John McCutcheon - All rights reserved
Strange Mood A-Brewin'
While playing with computer settings yesterday (adjusting MTU and RWIN for a Windows XP box to increase its ADSL average throughput from 1.2 Mbps to 2.75 Mbps; also tweaking the configuration of an old Westell 2200 ADSL modem), a strange mood fell over me. Tripped, it did. Snagged its toe on my body and went flying.
From that moment until now, I have adjusted my own settings, getting ready for the increasing daylight that post-winter solstice in the Northern Hemisphere brings.
I've washed the main house windows. I've raked leaves out of the wet weather creek bed in the side yard. I've cleaned my “junk” out of the sunroom and set up shelves for my wife's scrapbooking hobby. I hung Charlie the Red Cat framed prints in the back hallway. I folded clothes. I washed dishes. I put birdseed in the backyard feeders. I cleaned out the gutters. I wrapped holiday gifts. I washed the back of the '95 BMW.
I had memorable thoughts in what we call the dream state, seeing an Internet friend of mine, Kay, years from now, as a very old woman in a wheelchair, still cheerfully chatting away despite setbacks and hardships that would silence the strongest of us.
I thought about my former employees, including Kris, Charlie, Rod and others, happy to hear about their accomplishments (how many of us would travel to Haiti to set up wireless communications towers and spend time training locals to maintain the network?).
I enjoyed an evening at a photo shop named Portrait Innovations, where crowds of frantic families gathered for last-minute holiday photos and special package pricing. To get our pictures, my wife and I posed for and played with the photographer (Zac?) before he returned to the world of crying babies and playful kids. We returned 30 minutes later (after greeting Veronica at Zaxby's) to retrieve our packet of photographs to give as gifts to family and friends.
My new year starts today. Happy New Year to you, too. Here, the sun showed its face all day, birds sang in the trees, my across-the-street neighbour had a large fallen tree chopped up - scenting the neighbourhood with sawdust and broken evergreen limbs - and I watched a chipmunk zip across the street while a hawk circled overhead. All is well with my world. Time to prepare a little more for solar system / galaxy-level communications and put thoughts of this world behind me, secure in the belief that the people can take care of our world on their own.
Do you believe you can use a laser beam to build a “living” creature millions and millions of miles away? Do you see the possibility of building a creature that can replicate itself using local material? Do you see that, like Carl Sagan and others believed, we don't need people in place to build and plan for future arriving people? Do you see what will happen when self-replicating creatures reach a critical mass of replication for replication's sake, a la the Sorcerer's Apprentice? Do you have contingency plans in place to change the replication “programming” of the living creatures, “teaching” them that they'll have to take each other apart to build something bigger and better? Do you think you'll have the right answer when the first one asks “Why?”? What about when they (or some of them) resist their new programming? Do you destroy them, try a different method to reeducate them, or let them go off on their own and try something you hadn't planned for?
What is a strange mood? What is strange about any one mood? What is a mood to begin with? If we are but states of energy that simulate what we call mass, atoms and molecules, then a mood is a combination of states of energy, is it not? Of course it is. Then you can see that interplanetary communications is just a different form of strange mood.
Today, we discovered millions of new methods for living. We repeated methods that quadrillions have repeated over and over. The rise and fall, the expansion and contraction, of changing energy levels.
You may sit in a prison or stand in a cafe. You may hold your hands on a steering wheel, by yourself in a vehicle, or hold hands in a circle of people. You may see yourself as one person, or as truly, wonderfully nothing of the kind. We share the same planet and the same solar system - that's a fact we probably agree on. I want to say more but I'm not ready to speak about the next topic yet.
Instead, I'll work on the capillary action of the roof tiles to improve the solar heating and cooling system that acts like living sails/scales on the back of a certain extinct species I liked when I was a kid. Are the walls of your house inelastic but alive like your skin or are they dead and dry? My house is not alive in the conventional sense but it and I live in a symbiotic relationship, along with my wife, cats and other creatures crawling around this domestic setting. We are the examples we are trying to set for other planetary situations. If we can do it here, we can do it anywhere. New Earth, here we come!
20 December 2009
Positive Affects
If you believe in the condition called an emotional state, then you probably believe in happiness. How do you measure happiness? Well, a website called facebook has data engineers like Adam K discussing and measuring happiness.
Maybe you can draw happiness on odosketch? [thanks to a fellow blogger I follow for suggesting that one]
Today, I sang happiness with others - friends like Leon and Flo and David - in our recitation of seasonal songs. We listened to Hal's opening line of jokes which led to a brief, but serious, dissertation on a series of repetitive ancient texts, reminding us that no matter what we think, we're just the keepers of this planet for the next round of folks who're coming up behind us.
Repetition is not bad in and of itself, as long as we keep finding something new while repeating - hearing a new song or an old song for the very first time, feeling a new emotion or an old emotion more deeply, discovering a new idea, or warmly holding/hugging a new appreciation for our lifelong friends.
My niece, a nurse, taught me a new phrase, "hospital psychosis," a condition where a patient/client becomes disoriented while in the care of an institution of healing. Not all affects are positive. Negative affects can help us learn but avoid too much repetition. Everything in moderation, including institutionalised healing.
We received a surprise holiday email from the folks at Munster Rugby - we return our holiday greetings to you with well wishes and many memorable victories in the New Year! Although college/pro American-style football dominates the news here (not to mention our watching the last-second victory by the Steelers a little while ago, which reminds me that I haven't been to a J. Buck's in a while, before Schneider bought APC, as a matter of fact), we still cheer for those who give their all with no time for advert-based breaks in the action. Who is that puny Perpignan, anyway? Final score, Munster 37 - Perpignan 14.
Another day closer to opening a gift that contains a portable Yamaha...well, shouldn't state what I know I'll be opening yet, should I? Look surprised, I will! Gift-receiving emotional outbursts of joy are just as important as gift-giving, if not more so.
Another day closer to ending this book of a blog, the World Wide art of Writing, Science, Fashion, Math, Music, Politics, Sports and Finance. Another day closer to opening the universal intranet that ties our solar system closer together and puts our galaxy a time warp, just a jump to the left and then a step to the right, away.
Time to sit back and think about the flavourful sushi appetizer and tofu curry main dish I ate at Surin earlier today. Double scoop of coconut ice cream...mmm... Speaking of which, another nod to Amanda at the Main Dish - we'll keep coming back for more, including that Louisiana tabasco sauce and maybe a slice of Black Forest cake. Guess I need to get a copy of my niece's husband's book, the Navy SEAL Physical Fitness Guide, if I want this body of mine to be able to continue to walk under its own happy weight!
Glad that new friends and old friends stay in touch.
Maybe you can draw happiness on odosketch? [thanks to a fellow blogger I follow for suggesting that one]
Today, I sang happiness with others - friends like Leon and Flo and David - in our recitation of seasonal songs. We listened to Hal's opening line of jokes which led to a brief, but serious, dissertation on a series of repetitive ancient texts, reminding us that no matter what we think, we're just the keepers of this planet for the next round of folks who're coming up behind us.
Repetition is not bad in and of itself, as long as we keep finding something new while repeating - hearing a new song or an old song for the very first time, feeling a new emotion or an old emotion more deeply, discovering a new idea, or warmly holding/hugging a new appreciation for our lifelong friends.
My niece, a nurse, taught me a new phrase, "hospital psychosis," a condition where a patient/client becomes disoriented while in the care of an institution of healing. Not all affects are positive. Negative affects can help us learn but avoid too much repetition. Everything in moderation, including institutionalised healing.
We received a surprise holiday email from the folks at Munster Rugby - we return our holiday greetings to you with well wishes and many memorable victories in the New Year! Although college/pro American-style football dominates the news here (not to mention our watching the last-second victory by the Steelers a little while ago, which reminds me that I haven't been to a J. Buck's in a while, before Schneider bought APC, as a matter of fact), we still cheer for those who give their all with no time for advert-based breaks in the action. Who is that puny Perpignan, anyway? Final score, Munster 37 - Perpignan 14.
Another day closer to opening a gift that contains a portable Yamaha...well, shouldn't state what I know I'll be opening yet, should I? Look surprised, I will! Gift-receiving emotional outbursts of joy are just as important as gift-giving, if not more so.
Another day closer to ending this book of a blog, the World Wide art of Writing, Science, Fashion, Math, Music, Politics, Sports and Finance. Another day closer to opening the universal intranet that ties our solar system closer together and puts our galaxy a time warp, just a jump to the left and then a step to the right, away.
Time to sit back and think about the flavourful sushi appetizer and tofu curry main dish I ate at Surin earlier today. Double scoop of coconut ice cream...mmm... Speaking of which, another nod to Amanda at the Main Dish - we'll keep coming back for more, including that Louisiana tabasco sauce and maybe a slice of Black Forest cake. Guess I need to get a copy of my niece's husband's book, the Navy SEAL Physical Fitness Guide, if I want this body of mine to be able to continue to walk under its own happy weight!
Glad that new friends and old friends stay in touch.
19 December 2009
Stacking The Deck, Cheating The Future
While I wait a few more days to open my gift of lyrical soundmaking, I see the past.
Waiting... Waiting? Not waiting! Planning. Preparing. Listening. Dancing in the middoe of stores to music from hidden speakers o'erhead.
How often do you lean against a fence post and watch the young calves or kids dancing in the field? Do you compare the children's behaviour to that of their parents who methodically eat and chew, eat and chew, eat and chew and poop?
Do you ever see adult cows or goats dancing on new feet? Should you? Would you expect to see such a sight?
Tonight, my wife and I wandered through the menagerie of the import/export business as exemplified by a chain of stores called Pier 1 Imports. We gazed at the shiny baubles, played with the sparkly bangles and stared at the shiny beads. We also snapped our fingers and jiggled our bodies to the rhythm of seasonal songs.
And then in came the past, a group of teenagers dressed in the latest fun fashions, including faux fur lumberjack hat, who turned on the mimeograph machine in my head, pulled out the slide projector in my skeleton closet and flipped the transparencies of my yout'. There was I 30 years ago, skinny and young and having fun again for the very first time.
What is time? Ask the inventors of chess. Ask the king of kings, the ancient shahs of the Iranian regions of Persia. The rulers of India. Ask the emperors of Asia, Europe and Mexico. Seek out the meaning of time where time has no meaning on Mars.
I know the future. I know the past. I know some parts of this moment that was the future, now the moment, now the past. I know I will make wonderful music together. I will experiment and make sound combinations that have meaning only to dust devils on alien soils.
Tonight, I saw the past and the future and the future and the past. Thirty-year increments at a time.
Tonight, the shock of time that does not exist shook me, the person who does not exist.
I saw myself 30 years ago and didn't know what to tell me. I mean, after all, what's there to say that hasn't been said in any number of tales, both ancient and new? What could I possibly say to the person who hasn't yet lived the life that others dream and wish for that person to fulfill, both in their fantasies and the fantasies of that person who's full of promise and potential?
"Hey, look at me! I'm you 30 years from now. Is this what you want? Is this what you dream about?"
A slice of time that 30 years ago I and my friends called FHMS (Fort Henry Mall Syndrome). Now I know that FHMS is universal but back then I didn't. Back then I had ideals that guided me and my interaction with friends. Back then I thought that I lived on a rare mountaintop, a life paved with gold and lined with low-hanging fruit. I can now say I know better. FHMS is life but I hadn't live life to know that then.
So what if I lived a sheltered life in my teens? I can't go back. I can only look forward. Where in the crowd is me 30 years from now, looking back at myself in my late 40s and saying, "WOW! If I only knew then what I know now!"
In a few days I'll capture thoughts like these with musical notes and fragrant oils, with computer bits and bytes and lyrical pieces, climbing the vertical ladder of life from rung to rung, swinging back and forth, caught in Earth's gravitational pull for the moment but 30 years from now?
As I accept the fact that everything I think is a combination of everything that's been thought, then I can think about what hasn't been combined by groups of people who are thinking thoughts that have already been thought. I'm not trying to escape the world of people. I'm getting the world of people to stop thinking of themselves as living on one world, while at the same time believing I'm the only person reading what I write, because I am one person in one species on one planet in one solar system. What I can do and think, anyone else can. What anyone else can do and think, so can I.
Have you ever smelled the Sun rise over the moons of Saturn? Have you ever heard a comet crash into Jupiter's atmosphere? Have you ever shaken moon dust out of your spacesuit? Some of you will. Thirty years from now we'll laugh at how simple everything seemed as this calendar year ended and the next one began. I'm planning for that future right now. Aren't you?
Page two...
Waiting... Waiting? Not waiting! Planning. Preparing. Listening. Dancing in the middoe of stores to music from hidden speakers o'erhead.
How often do you lean against a fence post and watch the young calves or kids dancing in the field? Do you compare the children's behaviour to that of their parents who methodically eat and chew, eat and chew, eat and chew and poop?
Do you ever see adult cows or goats dancing on new feet? Should you? Would you expect to see such a sight?
Tonight, my wife and I wandered through the menagerie of the import/export business as exemplified by a chain of stores called Pier 1 Imports. We gazed at the shiny baubles, played with the sparkly bangles and stared at the shiny beads. We also snapped our fingers and jiggled our bodies to the rhythm of seasonal songs.
And then in came the past, a group of teenagers dressed in the latest fun fashions, including faux fur lumberjack hat, who turned on the mimeograph machine in my head, pulled out the slide projector in my skeleton closet and flipped the transparencies of my yout'. There was I 30 years ago, skinny and young and having fun again for the very first time.
What is time? Ask the inventors of chess. Ask the king of kings, the ancient shahs of the Iranian regions of Persia. The rulers of India. Ask the emperors of Asia, Europe and Mexico. Seek out the meaning of time where time has no meaning on Mars.
I know the future. I know the past. I know some parts of this moment that was the future, now the moment, now the past. I know I will make wonderful music together. I will experiment and make sound combinations that have meaning only to dust devils on alien soils.
Tonight, I saw the past and the future and the future and the past. Thirty-year increments at a time.
Tonight, the shock of time that does not exist shook me, the person who does not exist.
I saw myself 30 years ago and didn't know what to tell me. I mean, after all, what's there to say that hasn't been said in any number of tales, both ancient and new? What could I possibly say to the person who hasn't yet lived the life that others dream and wish for that person to fulfill, both in their fantasies and the fantasies of that person who's full of promise and potential?
"Hey, look at me! I'm you 30 years from now. Is this what you want? Is this what you dream about?"
A slice of time that 30 years ago I and my friends called FHMS (Fort Henry Mall Syndrome). Now I know that FHMS is universal but back then I didn't. Back then I had ideals that guided me and my interaction with friends. Back then I thought that I lived on a rare mountaintop, a life paved with gold and lined with low-hanging fruit. I can now say I know better. FHMS is life but I hadn't live life to know that then.
So what if I lived a sheltered life in my teens? I can't go back. I can only look forward. Where in the crowd is me 30 years from now, looking back at myself in my late 40s and saying, "WOW! If I only knew then what I know now!"
In a few days I'll capture thoughts like these with musical notes and fragrant oils, with computer bits and bytes and lyrical pieces, climbing the vertical ladder of life from rung to rung, swinging back and forth, caught in Earth's gravitational pull for the moment but 30 years from now?
As I accept the fact that everything I think is a combination of everything that's been thought, then I can think about what hasn't been combined by groups of people who are thinking thoughts that have already been thought. I'm not trying to escape the world of people. I'm getting the world of people to stop thinking of themselves as living on one world, while at the same time believing I'm the only person reading what I write, because I am one person in one species on one planet in one solar system. What I can do and think, anyone else can. What anyone else can do and think, so can I.
Have you ever smelled the Sun rise over the moons of Saturn? Have you ever heard a comet crash into Jupiter's atmosphere? Have you ever shaken moon dust out of your spacesuit? Some of you will. Thirty years from now we'll laugh at how simple everything seemed as this calendar year ended and the next one began. I'm planning for that future right now. Aren't you?
Page two...
The Last Laugh?
An image worth remembering: college dorm rooms then versus now. And a thanks to Abdul along with all the others who helped at the Holiday Inn (some for years now!) during the annual marathon - only a week ago this year?
While thinking about the direction to take after this winter's solstice (a/k/a New Year (a/k/a choose your favorite people-picked calendricalifictitious counting method)), I have decided to get out of the arts-and-crafts scribbling, scratching, typing writing mode for a while and focus my thoughts on musical and scent notation.
Meanwhile, I watch the world of people spin past my eyes again and again until I've gotten dizzy with repetition, myself in the middle of the blizzard of stirred-up dust and flurries of activity we call being busy, the cartoonish Tasmanian devil or other fantasy flickster in a whirlwind of tumbleweeds escaping escarpments and fences. History, mystery and headlines jumbled together in a 1,000,000,000,moo,000,000,000-piece 3D jigsaw puzzle, self-assembling and falling apart night after night to the tune of clicking keys in typewriter factories and paddleboat/steamboat excursions. I can either flatten myself onto the snowball gaining mass rolling ahead of the avalanche sliding off the melting glacier or I can step aside and gather moss on my own timescale. The former was fun for a while. Time is later for the latter, but not too late.
For those who will share their lives with me in the moment, I thank you ahead of time for taking time out of your busy schedule to smile, being kind and gracious to a middle-aged guy like me. You are my reason for being - otherwise, I'd hightail it to the woods and be a hermit eating nuts and grubs, whistling along with the wind tickling the tree leaves, the limbs creaking to no special beat and the insects singing love songs while hiding from the birds singing whatever comes to mind.
My next adventure will tell its tale through musical instruments, melodies and harmonies influenced by minimalism, nature, experimentation and whatever these hands, eyes, ears and nose (using trees (like cedar) and herbs (like garlic chives) from my yard) can fit together in and out of the world of "music." Time to put my thoughts into a place where words and peopled historical patterns make less sense. One more celebration of true freedom, another step toward understanding if freedom is a word, an idea, or an approximation of the unobtainable. One being on one planet being alive. Feeling alone in my loneliness of feeling like I'm the first one repeating the journey, trailblazing a path overgrown since it was last tread by many before me long ago - knowing full well that my atoms and molecules, my genetic makeup, allow me to compose my own version of recombinant DNA at the macro-, social-organism level.
Thus, I don't know if we'll meet in this blog again. In other words, if I want to put images, sounds, smells, and tastes together into a new experience, how do I project this experience onto the Internet and thus have it available for download by you? Describing such an experience with words is not enough. Putting a description and soundtrack together is closer but still farther from the "truth" of the experience. This Internet is such a young, incomplete (and often immature) communication medium, is it not? Superimposing the Internet on real life (augmenting reality) is not a goal I seek. I want to superimpose real life on the Internet. Being there, all our warts, freckles, smells, imperfections and thoughts intact, with the Internet as we know it today simply a catalog or extended memory space supplementing, not supplanting reality. Why? So that when one of us circles the Moon on an outer space spa trip, all of us can go along if we want. The question to you is which one do you want to be, the traveler who creates the experience or the one who experiences the traveler's trip?
In other words, we'll meet again soon. It's simply a question of how, not where and when.
While thinking about the direction to take after this winter's solstice (a/k/a New Year (a/k/a choose your favorite people-picked calendricalifictitious counting method)), I have decided to get out of the arts-and-crafts scribbling, scratching, typing writing mode for a while and focus my thoughts on musical and scent notation.
Meanwhile, I watch the world of people spin past my eyes again and again until I've gotten dizzy with repetition, myself in the middle of the blizzard of stirred-up dust and flurries of activity we call being busy, the cartoonish Tasmanian devil or other fantasy flickster in a whirlwind of tumbleweeds escaping escarpments and fences. History, mystery and headlines jumbled together in a 1,000,000,000,moo,000,000,000-piece 3D jigsaw puzzle, self-assembling and falling apart night after night to the tune of clicking keys in typewriter factories and paddleboat/steamboat excursions. I can either flatten myself onto the snowball gaining mass rolling ahead of the avalanche sliding off the melting glacier or I can step aside and gather moss on my own timescale. The former was fun for a while. Time is later for the latter, but not too late.
For those who will share their lives with me in the moment, I thank you ahead of time for taking time out of your busy schedule to smile, being kind and gracious to a middle-aged guy like me. You are my reason for being - otherwise, I'd hightail it to the woods and be a hermit eating nuts and grubs, whistling along with the wind tickling the tree leaves, the limbs creaking to no special beat and the insects singing love songs while hiding from the birds singing whatever comes to mind.
My next adventure will tell its tale through musical instruments, melodies and harmonies influenced by minimalism, nature, experimentation and whatever these hands, eyes, ears and nose (using trees (like cedar) and herbs (like garlic chives) from my yard) can fit together in and out of the world of "music." Time to put my thoughts into a place where words and peopled historical patterns make less sense. One more celebration of true freedom, another step toward understanding if freedom is a word, an idea, or an approximation of the unobtainable. One being on one planet being alive. Feeling alone in my loneliness of feeling like I'm the first one repeating the journey, trailblazing a path overgrown since it was last tread by many before me long ago - knowing full well that my atoms and molecules, my genetic makeup, allow me to compose my own version of recombinant DNA at the macro-, social-organism level.
Thus, I don't know if we'll meet in this blog again. In other words, if I want to put images, sounds, smells, and tastes together into a new experience, how do I project this experience onto the Internet and thus have it available for download by you? Describing such an experience with words is not enough. Putting a description and soundtrack together is closer but still farther from the "truth" of the experience. This Internet is such a young, incomplete (and often immature) communication medium, is it not? Superimposing the Internet on real life (augmenting reality) is not a goal I seek. I want to superimpose real life on the Internet. Being there, all our warts, freckles, smells, imperfections and thoughts intact, with the Internet as we know it today simply a catalog or extended memory space supplementing, not supplanting reality. Why? So that when one of us circles the Moon on an outer space spa trip, all of us can go along if we want. The question to you is which one do you want to be, the traveler who creates the experience or the one who experiences the traveler's trip?
In other words, we'll meet again soon. It's simply a question of how, not where and when.
18 December 2009
Glossary
A - Attention. A word meant to focus others on you. [See "Cry Wolf"]
B - Bear. A large, furry creature meant to test the "Darwin theory" about survival of the fittest, especially when two or more drunk people encounter a grizzly bear in the woods (remember, you don't have to be the fastest runner, just faster than your buddy).
C - Cry Wolf. A situation where one has overused a phrase overused a phrase overused a phrase and lost the attention of one's intended audience [See "Typical skit endings of SNL"]
D - Darwin Theory. The proposition that an isolated pocket of humanoid bipeds will, given enough time and space, evolve into social class structures similar to but distinct from other isolated social class structures; when any two isolated social class structures meet, the one that guarantees the best return for the investments of the newly-combined social class leaders will be the one that survives. [See "Bear" for alternative explanation]
E - Ending. Where one appears to know when one should put a period at the end of a sentence at the end of the paragraph at the end of the chapter at the end of the book. Assuming one has found the end.
F - Final Try. This blog entry wraps up this blog by proposing to crossbreed the privet bush with a nutritious berry bush and overpopulate the banks of local creeks and rivers with delicious bird food bushes so that local volunteers can spend their time not worrying about nonnative nonnutritious foliage. A set of nods to Flo (who is seeing Robert, beer aficionado), Esther (and her son's reference to Buckhorn Beer), Tom (a barkeep at 801 Franklin), Rick the chef and the servers at Around Your Table restaurant (a nice secret inexpensive eatery in Big Cove/Hampton Cove), the cashier at Mike's Merchandise (hope the Goody's powder did the trick), the security guard in the garden department at Wal-Mart (thanks for the stories about sneaky customers - just when you thought you'd heard them all!), the folks at Art Etc. (who created two wonderful framed wall art pieces for us) and last (but by no means least!), Margo at Publix (did you get to enjoy the new garden pasta?).
G - Great walk in the woods yesterday:
17th Dec 2009, 13:45. Sitting on a lichen-covered rock, a natural bench. Strands of barbed-wire fencing snaking across the ground of leaves and twigs, growing out of the middle of tree trunks as if by magic. Walking the property behind my house. The fence line probably denotes property purchases through the years. People marks of long ago.
Thin layer of clouds overhead. White, tinged with stainless steel gray, the sun a washed-out yellow blotch just setting over the hilltop.
People sounds - airplanes, two helicopters, motor vehicles (road-based) - making their presence known over my hissing ears.
Leafcup alive and doing well. Frost-damaged grass, like miniature swamp bamboo. A buzzard circling to the NW. Gray squirrel on gray rocks. A cool, gray day.
Power towers nearby. Bleached snail shells. A crow calling to friends. Robins in a cedar tree. Prickly pear, bloomin' sedum and ferns on rock pedestals atop the rocky bald. Deer prints in the dirt.
All the comfort and familiarity of one's home woods in the suburban jungle.
Above, a video capturing images from yesterday's sojourn atop Little Mountain, set to the guitar music of Andrés Segovia, playing Suite for solo cello no. 1 in G Major, BWV 1007: Prelude by J.S. Bach, and the piano music of Youri Egorov, playing Estampes: Soirée Dans Grenade by Claude Debussy. Images frozen in place by the Elph (Canon PowerShot SD1000), a handy pocket cam for those like me who don't have an all-in-one Swiss Army mobile phone that slices / dices julienne fries and happens to make international phone calls while filing your nails and working out your horoscope to 20 decimal places to help you decide if your new boy/girlfriend will dump you just before the holidays to save money on gift giving.
[Glossary to be continued because this book of a blog just won't end...]
B - Bear. A large, furry creature meant to test the "Darwin theory" about survival of the fittest, especially when two or more drunk people encounter a grizzly bear in the woods (remember, you don't have to be the fastest runner, just faster than your buddy).
C - Cry Wolf. A situation where one has overused a phrase overused a phrase overused a phrase and lost the attention of one's intended audience [See "Typical skit endings of SNL"]
D - Darwin Theory. The proposition that an isolated pocket of humanoid bipeds will, given enough time and space, evolve into social class structures similar to but distinct from other isolated social class structures; when any two isolated social class structures meet, the one that guarantees the best return for the investments of the newly-combined social class leaders will be the one that survives. [See "Bear" for alternative explanation]
E - Ending. Where one appears to know when one should put a period at the end of a sentence at the end of the paragraph at the end of the chapter at the end of the book. Assuming one has found the end.
F - Final Try. This blog entry wraps up this blog by proposing to crossbreed the privet bush with a nutritious berry bush and overpopulate the banks of local creeks and rivers with delicious bird food bushes so that local volunteers can spend their time not worrying about nonnative nonnutritious foliage. A set of nods to Flo (who is seeing Robert, beer aficionado), Esther (and her son's reference to Buckhorn Beer), Tom (a barkeep at 801 Franklin), Rick the chef and the servers at Around Your Table restaurant (a nice secret inexpensive eatery in Big Cove/Hampton Cove), the cashier at Mike's Merchandise (hope the Goody's powder did the trick), the security guard in the garden department at Wal-Mart (thanks for the stories about sneaky customers - just when you thought you'd heard them all!), the folks at Art Etc. (who created two wonderful framed wall art pieces for us) and last (but by no means least!), Margo at Publix (did you get to enjoy the new garden pasta?).
G - Great walk in the woods yesterday:
17th Dec 2009, 13:45. Sitting on a lichen-covered rock, a natural bench. Strands of barbed-wire fencing snaking across the ground of leaves and twigs, growing out of the middle of tree trunks as if by magic. Walking the property behind my house. The fence line probably denotes property purchases through the years. People marks of long ago.
Thin layer of clouds overhead. White, tinged with stainless steel gray, the sun a washed-out yellow blotch just setting over the hilltop.
People sounds - airplanes, two helicopters, motor vehicles (road-based) - making their presence known over my hissing ears.
Leafcup alive and doing well. Frost-damaged grass, like miniature swamp bamboo. A buzzard circling to the NW. Gray squirrel on gray rocks. A cool, gray day.
Power towers nearby. Bleached snail shells. A crow calling to friends. Robins in a cedar tree. Prickly pear, bloomin' sedum and ferns on rock pedestals atop the rocky bald. Deer prints in the dirt.
All the comfort and familiarity of one's home woods in the suburban jungle.
Above, a video capturing images from yesterday's sojourn atop Little Mountain, set to the guitar music of Andrés Segovia, playing Suite for solo cello no. 1 in G Major, BWV 1007: Prelude by J.S. Bach, and the piano music of Youri Egorov, playing Estampes: Soirée Dans Grenade by Claude Debussy. Images frozen in place by the Elph (Canon PowerShot SD1000), a handy pocket cam for those like me who don't have an all-in-one Swiss Army mobile phone that slices / dices julienne fries and happens to make international phone calls while filing your nails and working out your horoscope to 20 decimal places to help you decide if your new boy/girlfriend will dump you just before the holidays to save money on gift giving.
[Glossary to be continued because this book of a blog just won't end...]
15 December 2009
Epilogue Yule Log Catalog of Logged Logjams
Subtitle: Ode to Miranda, Who Took Care of Five Customers, Five Cheques
What is a day? A moment divided. A set of sensations. A series of situations. Smoky blue eyes. Happiness accounted for and noted.
I will start a new blog, a new attitude, a different opinion. This blog afterthought an afterthought, an aftertaste, a reaching out from the fog, a tap on the shoulder, a smile, an agreement, an "I'm not sure what I'm doing but I'm here in the typing phase of my existence away from the from a livescribe pen and notepad to let myself (yourself) know I am (we are) alive and doing well."
I pause, taking a sip from a cylindrical glass of wasser to say hello to you who may read this. Me, in other words, in this moment, in one thought, one idea, one expression of a person's thought(s).
I want to be more than I am. I am happy to be me who is who I am in this moment, my limited vocabulary limited by my typing skills, by my thoughts, by my experience(s) with you, lonely as we are now/then.
I see your eyes. I see the eyes of Miranda, the gray/blue, blue/gray reflections coming back to me as we conversed during your memorisation of my ordering from the restaurant menu, your knowing pretty much what the other regular patrons around me would tell you what they wanted to eat. And then there was Sarah this evening, an order taker joining me and others (including my constant companion, my cohort, my spare change, my lifesaver, my bedsharer, my spouse, my wife), who passed brown and clear bottles of brewed hops and grains (i.e., beer) at the BeerQuest in the Heritage Club in Huntsville for an evening of good times between those who wanted to gather downtown for privileged drinking, a few hours of hoppy fun.
We know our presidential leader, our national icon, smokes tobacco-filled cigarettes.
We accept what we cannot change. We know Tammy Harrington (Herrington?) [like my friend Ann-Marie in HHI], whose automobile license tag reads "WINEDIVA," or some such, kept track of the beer-tasting festivities tonight, recording which beers from which state outside of Alabama provided the tongue-tingling sensations (our tastebuds tickled by high-gravity fermentation) which we'll remember best. Harry and Laura say the Upland Nuthugger did the trick. Others picked other brews.
And what a list, too (do I dare try to name some, if not most, of them all?):
Sarah (with an "h", with a smile, with...well, with her boyfriend Adam who finally showed up, Harry and his wife Laura providing a counterbalance). Laura, who couldn't sing, but who missed the boys' choir this year. Sarah, who grew up in a "holler" 10 miles south of the Tennessee border and 10 miles east of the Lawrence County line. Robert, who has shown up with 100 kinds of beer and who brought friends in times past who brought gallons of fresh brews for tasting / sampling / drinking / guzzling.
Anyone remember the Chicken Shack or the River Club? Anyone remember boilermakers?
Have you ever had 1/4 shot Jameson, 3/4 shot Bailey's, all dropped into a glass of Guinness?
And then the team who cleaned up after us, going to school, taking classes, wondering when they'd get to enjoy the festivities and/or have someone clean up after them.
Time for another blog. Another look at life. A new perspective. This epilogue accounted for and added up.
I enjoyed working with Glenn and Ryan and Janeil and Lawrence and Jim and others who piled and handed food to the 33rd Rocket City marathon runners/DNFs on Saturday. I met Eric Patterson (sp?), Carol (my wife's college roommate), Erin (a UTK alumnus/supporter) and many others whose faces smiled/flashed at me during the aftermath of sweaty/satisfied finishers passing through the food line.
I've seen faces in other places while looking at mobile phone providers who want my business. I still use my old-fashioned Nokia 3120 (old model) to answer calls and peruse a tiny screen for the occasional foray into the media mall world, not yet convinced to plunge into the 3G/GPS universe of Internet browsing, letting my spouse use her iPod touch to touch the worldwide web of YouTube and Google searching.
"Michelle, ma belle..", another song sung after a server served us at Chili's. "Tres bien ensemble." Built very well?
I know the faces, the smiles, the persons/people whose faces have recognised mine. Need we say more? Loneliness/alone, we know the looks. Time to find another space to share with you. Another time, perhaps? I'll post one more entry sometime to let you where I'll land. This epilogue has found its epic finish. Time to bid adieu. Adios. À bientôt. Friends from Dominican Republic to ROC, I say hello and farewell (or fair well, as the case may be). We face a new beginning, a new tomorrow, an old yesterday, a moment in forever where our paths will cross. Until then, I bow and say thanks for being my friend for the brief time we spent together. Lenier and Anita, I hope I got your names right because our friendships were right at the time...
What is a day? A moment divided. A set of sensations. A series of situations. Smoky blue eyes. Happiness accounted for and noted.
I will start a new blog, a new attitude, a different opinion. This blog afterthought an afterthought, an aftertaste, a reaching out from the fog, a tap on the shoulder, a smile, an agreement, an "I'm not sure what I'm doing but I'm here in the typing phase of my existence away from the from a livescribe pen and notepad to let myself (yourself) know I am (we are) alive and doing well."
I pause, taking a sip from a cylindrical glass of wasser to say hello to you who may read this. Me, in other words, in this moment, in one thought, one idea, one expression of a person's thought(s).
I want to be more than I am. I am happy to be me who is who I am in this moment, my limited vocabulary limited by my typing skills, by my thoughts, by my experience(s) with you, lonely as we are now/then.
I see your eyes. I see the eyes of Miranda, the gray/blue, blue/gray reflections coming back to me as we conversed during your memorisation of my ordering from the restaurant menu, your knowing pretty much what the other regular patrons around me would tell you what they wanted to eat. And then there was Sarah this evening, an order taker joining me and others (including my constant companion, my cohort, my spare change, my lifesaver, my bedsharer, my spouse, my wife), who passed brown and clear bottles of brewed hops and grains (i.e., beer) at the BeerQuest in the Heritage Club in Huntsville for an evening of good times between those who wanted to gather downtown for privileged drinking, a few hours of hoppy fun.
We know our presidential leader, our national icon, smokes tobacco-filled cigarettes.
We accept what we cannot change. We know Tammy Harrington (Herrington?) [like my friend Ann-Marie in HHI], whose automobile license tag reads "WINEDIVA," or some such, kept track of the beer-tasting festivities tonight, recording which beers from which state outside of Alabama provided the tongue-tingling sensations (our tastebuds tickled by high-gravity fermentation) which we'll remember best. Harry and Laura say the Upland Nuthugger did the trick. Others picked other brews.
And what a list, too (do I dare try to name some, if not most, of them all?):
- Moosbacher Schwarze Weisse
- Dragonfly IPA
- Hog Heaven Barleywine by Avery
- Dogfish Raison D'etre
- Blackheart English-style IPA
- Bathbeer Nuezeller Blofter-Brau
- Boulevard Dry Stout
- Unibroue Dark Ale (Terrible?)
- Unibroue Trois Pistoles
- Stone Vertical
- Stone XI (11th) Anniversary
- Jefferson Bourbon Barrel Stout
- Dogfish Palo Santo Marron
- Sierra Nevada Harvest Fresh Southern Hemisphere Hop
- Midas Touch Ale
- Upland Nuthugger Brown Ale
- Upland Chocolate Ale
Sarah (with an "h", with a smile, with...well, with her boyfriend Adam who finally showed up, Harry and his wife Laura providing a counterbalance). Laura, who couldn't sing, but who missed the boys' choir this year. Sarah, who grew up in a "holler" 10 miles south of the Tennessee border and 10 miles east of the Lawrence County line. Robert, who has shown up with 100 kinds of beer and who brought friends in times past who brought gallons of fresh brews for tasting / sampling / drinking / guzzling.
Anyone remember the Chicken Shack or the River Club? Anyone remember boilermakers?
Have you ever had 1/4 shot Jameson, 3/4 shot Bailey's, all dropped into a glass of Guinness?
And then the team who cleaned up after us, going to school, taking classes, wondering when they'd get to enjoy the festivities and/or have someone clean up after them.
Time for another blog. Another look at life. A new perspective. This epilogue accounted for and added up.
I enjoyed working with Glenn and Ryan and Janeil and Lawrence and Jim and others who piled and handed food to the 33rd Rocket City marathon runners/DNFs on Saturday. I met Eric Patterson (sp?), Carol (my wife's college roommate), Erin (a UTK alumnus/supporter) and many others whose faces smiled/flashed at me during the aftermath of sweaty/satisfied finishers passing through the food line.
I've seen faces in other places while looking at mobile phone providers who want my business. I still use my old-fashioned Nokia 3120 (old model) to answer calls and peruse a tiny screen for the occasional foray into the media mall world, not yet convinced to plunge into the 3G/GPS universe of Internet browsing, letting my spouse use her iPod touch to touch the worldwide web of YouTube and Google searching.
"Michelle, ma belle..", another song sung after a server served us at Chili's. "Tres bien ensemble." Built very well?
I know the faces, the smiles, the persons/people whose faces have recognised mine. Need we say more? Loneliness/alone, we know the looks. Time to find another space to share with you. Another time, perhaps? I'll post one more entry sometime to let you where I'll land. This epilogue has found its epic finish. Time to bid adieu. Adios. À bientôt. Friends from Dominican Republic to ROC, I say hello and farewell (or fair well, as the case may be). We face a new beginning, a new tomorrow, an old yesterday, a moment in forever where our paths will cross. Until then, I bow and say thanks for being my friend for the brief time we spent together. Lenier and Anita, I hope I got your names right because our friendships were right at the time...
11 December 2009
While you were away:
Water fell from the sky the other day - in torrents, sheets, downpours. The instantaneous, temporary rivulets and creeks picked up dry leaves and pushed forward sand, dirt and small rocks. Tree roots were bared and trees fell down. Insects drowned.
Possibly a 24-hour rainfall record for that calendar day.
The water has moved on, into underground reservoirs, ponds, lakes and seas.
Life moves on.
At this moment, nothing profound. No word sounds bouncing around in my thoughts, no diverse events to connect together for slights, slices, or slight bits of humour. Playfulness absent from my being.
Why?
Caught in the three-dimensional maze, the labyrinth of space-time, unable to see the big picture today.
Knowing the truth within the truth based on facts outside of words and no way to create a word sculpture to reveal the truth through panes of pained glass shards. I can look into the thoughts and motivations of others but that's just looking at the people world into which I was born and raised. I can look outside the people world and see more than I can comprehend but that's just toying with large objects so big I label them infinite.
I do not play computer games like Sims, Command and Conquer, or MMORPGs. I do not hold a seat in a legislative body like the League of Nations. I am one person, sitting here looking at the universe on my doorstep. For all I really know, the universe revolves around me. For all I really know, there is no me and there is no universe.
People will die of starvation today. Tons of jellyfish will reproduce themselves. My neighbour will use a petrol-powered leaf blower to push storm-piled leaves down the street and into his neighbours' ditches so that his property shows a plain of green grass in winter and hopefully looks good enough for potential buyers. This world full of creatures is alive with interaction, good, bad or indifferent.
Thus I find myself wondering if I should remove people-coloured glasses and see this world and the neighbouring parts of the universe as if the universe was absolutely neutral about the existence of our species. Not hostile. Not benevolent. Absent of thought. Interacting because our concentrated matter happens to bump into other neighbouring concentrated matter (or non-concentrated matter/antimatter, for that matter).
Equality. Freedom. Truth.
Are you prepared to explore other planetary bodies, and while doing so recognising the fact that Earth-based creatures are not the only creatures who get to live in this universe? If you're willing to excavate the graves of other cultures, living or extinct, while calling the gravesites of your culture sacred, will you treat off-Earth planetary fossilised records as sacred or simply a place where creatures died in another time and place? If you're willing to eat a species to extinction on Earth, would you be willing to eat the last species, the last living thing, on another planet, especially if it was a matter of personal/familial survival to you? Do you think you and your culture have a better idea how to take care of your place in this universe than any other? Do you really know what life is all about; in other words, what is a living thing to you?
I am one person. I have no absolute answers. I have more questions than solutions to problems or challenges to meet head-on.
I am of our species but that does not mean I am for or against our species. Our species will generally exist in its current form for a very long time but our species is one of many forms of the local state of the universe. Not the only one. I am not here to convince you your cultural upbringing teaches that you and your culture are the prime reason for existence, and I am not here to convince you the teaching is incorrect. My observations are my own, here for my edification and entertainment, repeating those of others who have seen the same thing.
More than once I have debated my thoughts about jumping off this hamster wheel of writing a daily blog entry and more than once I have taken a few days off to contemplate my debate. I return here because I cannot see a viable way to do something other than what I'm doing right now. Is this blog writing my form of meditation? No, it's my form of self-promotion, continuing my cultural practice of practicing self-importance. Can I set aside this laptop computer and perform other parlor tricks of language playfulness on paper? Perhaps I can and perhaps I should. By shutting off this computer, I shut off my connection to Internet news headlines, I disconnect myself from the artificial world of bits and bytes and I return to the non-people centered view of the universe that trees, rocks, lichen and meteor showers give me. Today, after writing this blog entry, I will close this laptop that contains a virtual desktop and move it off my real desktop. I will step outside and enjoy the crisp, cold air. I will take walks. I will talk to my neighbours, including people, plants and other animals. I will be one with the universe again, instead of being one with the people through electronic means. I will do what I enjoy, composing handwritten notes, drawing and sketching, whittling wooden creatures from dead tree limbs, determining which living things stay in my garden or get pulled up as weeds to be planted somewhere else, and changing my thought patterns to ones tied to a quiet life free of computing devices, networks and radio communication methods.
I am not a farmer or a rancher. I am a gardener. I imitate the life of an artist named Peter Sellers who very nearly perfected the role of Chance the Gardener, a.k.a. Chauncey Gardiner. That is what this blog has always been about. That is the truth behind the truth that this blog as a living book has always tried to reveal. Now that you know the truth, I hope you can find something else entertaining to read. This storybook blog has come to a happy conclusion. I am free to be me once again.
THE END. %^)
Possibly a 24-hour rainfall record for that calendar day.
The water has moved on, into underground reservoirs, ponds, lakes and seas.
Life moves on.
At this moment, nothing profound. No word sounds bouncing around in my thoughts, no diverse events to connect together for slights, slices, or slight bits of humour. Playfulness absent from my being.
Why?
Caught in the three-dimensional maze, the labyrinth of space-time, unable to see the big picture today.
Knowing the truth within the truth based on facts outside of words and no way to create a word sculpture to reveal the truth through panes of pained glass shards. I can look into the thoughts and motivations of others but that's just looking at the people world into which I was born and raised. I can look outside the people world and see more than I can comprehend but that's just toying with large objects so big I label them infinite.
I do not play computer games like Sims, Command and Conquer, or MMORPGs. I do not hold a seat in a legislative body like the League of Nations. I am one person, sitting here looking at the universe on my doorstep. For all I really know, the universe revolves around me. For all I really know, there is no me and there is no universe.
People will die of starvation today. Tons of jellyfish will reproduce themselves. My neighbour will use a petrol-powered leaf blower to push storm-piled leaves down the street and into his neighbours' ditches so that his property shows a plain of green grass in winter and hopefully looks good enough for potential buyers. This world full of creatures is alive with interaction, good, bad or indifferent.
Thus I find myself wondering if I should remove people-coloured glasses and see this world and the neighbouring parts of the universe as if the universe was absolutely neutral about the existence of our species. Not hostile. Not benevolent. Absent of thought. Interacting because our concentrated matter happens to bump into other neighbouring concentrated matter (or non-concentrated matter/antimatter, for that matter).
Equality. Freedom. Truth.
Are you prepared to explore other planetary bodies, and while doing so recognising the fact that Earth-based creatures are not the only creatures who get to live in this universe? If you're willing to excavate the graves of other cultures, living or extinct, while calling the gravesites of your culture sacred, will you treat off-Earth planetary fossilised records as sacred or simply a place where creatures died in another time and place? If you're willing to eat a species to extinction on Earth, would you be willing to eat the last species, the last living thing, on another planet, especially if it was a matter of personal/familial survival to you? Do you think you and your culture have a better idea how to take care of your place in this universe than any other? Do you really know what life is all about; in other words, what is a living thing to you?
I am one person. I have no absolute answers. I have more questions than solutions to problems or challenges to meet head-on.
I am of our species but that does not mean I am for or against our species. Our species will generally exist in its current form for a very long time but our species is one of many forms of the local state of the universe. Not the only one. I am not here to convince you your cultural upbringing teaches that you and your culture are the prime reason for existence, and I am not here to convince you the teaching is incorrect. My observations are my own, here for my edification and entertainment, repeating those of others who have seen the same thing.
More than once I have debated my thoughts about jumping off this hamster wheel of writing a daily blog entry and more than once I have taken a few days off to contemplate my debate. I return here because I cannot see a viable way to do something other than what I'm doing right now. Is this blog writing my form of meditation? No, it's my form of self-promotion, continuing my cultural practice of practicing self-importance. Can I set aside this laptop computer and perform other parlor tricks of language playfulness on paper? Perhaps I can and perhaps I should. By shutting off this computer, I shut off my connection to Internet news headlines, I disconnect myself from the artificial world of bits and bytes and I return to the non-people centered view of the universe that trees, rocks, lichen and meteor showers give me. Today, after writing this blog entry, I will close this laptop that contains a virtual desktop and move it off my real desktop. I will step outside and enjoy the crisp, cold air. I will take walks. I will talk to my neighbours, including people, plants and other animals. I will be one with the universe again, instead of being one with the people through electronic means. I will do what I enjoy, composing handwritten notes, drawing and sketching, whittling wooden creatures from dead tree limbs, determining which living things stay in my garden or get pulled up as weeds to be planted somewhere else, and changing my thought patterns to ones tied to a quiet life free of computing devices, networks and radio communication methods.
I am not a farmer or a rancher. I am a gardener. I imitate the life of an artist named Peter Sellers who very nearly perfected the role of Chance the Gardener, a.k.a. Chauncey Gardiner. That is what this blog has always been about. That is the truth behind the truth that this blog as a living book has always tried to reveal. Now that you know the truth, I hope you can find something else entertaining to read. This storybook blog has come to a happy conclusion. I am free to be me once again.
THE END. %^)
10 December 2009
Mediterranean Is Scary Laboratory of Ocean Futures
Anyone hungry for soylent green?:
Mediterranean Is Scary Laboratory of Ocean Futures
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Mediterranean Is Scary Laboratory of Ocean Futures
Posted using ShareThis
Just one more form to fill out...
Choices. Outside the window, the long rays of the sun setting in the end of the first third of December. The tall, slender, gray-and-brown, lichened-covered tree trunks. The cobalt sky, mixed with streaks of snow-white milky clouds. Pine trees providing shelter from the freezing cold, forming a diamond-shaped framed opening through the woods, revealing rows of charcoal and slate-gray rooftops where once I watched doves and crows gathered in harvested soybean fields.
We keep expanding, generation after generation finding a new place to live, just as my wife and I found this house under construction and called it our own.
And so it is that I find myself participating in this country's effort every ten years to count the number of people who breathe and move about a portion of North America.
Sitting with an eclectic group of people who have their reasons for joining the census team. Writing our names and addresses, answering questions by "X"ing checkboxes. Listening to instructions of Ed telling us not to get ahead, the attentive eyes of another teammate waiting nearby. Sitting in a meeting room of the local library where I once gave a talk in 1990 or 1991 about recycling conifer trees after removing the annual festival decorations, promoting the Huntsville Botanical Garden's tree recycling effort that I started with cooperation from local businesses and volunteer organizations (inspired by Kingsport's annual tree recycling that was canceled recently due to low participation).
An arbitrary numbering system, based in part on our number of fingers or toes, the "number" zero invented by one or more cultures eons ago.
Using numbers and languages, people will organize teams based on boundaries drawn on maps of organized streets and dwellings. Teams. Players. Game plans. I know this score, don't I? Civilisation deciding how to be civilised.
Our future based on filed reports. Interviews. Ringing doorbells and hammering door knockers. Just like the summer I sold books door-to-door for Southwestern Book Company (1983?), listening to all the "No" and "I'm not interested" responses in order to find a "Yes" two or three times a day. This time, we've got nothing to sell. We're gathering information for everyone to enjoy a better tomorrow, all 'cause there are those who want to tax, sell or trade with us based on our population demographic distributions. Bell curves and hockey sticks.
Everyday people talking with everyday people, seeking those who, for one reason or another, didn't mail in their mailed-out census questionnaires. Maybe double-checking a few along the way.
I'll let you know how it goes. All I did, with those in the room with me today, was colour in 28 circles using a no. 2 pencil after filling out a couple of background information forms using a government-issued ballpoint blue ink pen. The rest is up to those who need to gather an army of census takers every 10 years. They need plenty more folks, if you're interested in putting on your walking shoes and spending some time chatting with people in your part of the country while making a little money, too. Ten percent of us not actively employed (more like 20, but that's fodder for another blog) - should be lots of us interested in taking home a few extra paychecks, right? I'll leave that thought up to you.
Time for me to watch Earth rotate, rolling dark shadows up the mountain slopes and taking away the Sun's heat another day, the lights of my people blinking on like summer fireflies, a few pushing curls of smoke out the tops of chimneys, most pulling energy out of power lines running to their homes' heat engines.
We keep expanding, generation after generation finding a new place to live, just as my wife and I found this house under construction and called it our own.
And so it is that I find myself participating in this country's effort every ten years to count the number of people who breathe and move about a portion of North America.
Sitting with an eclectic group of people who have their reasons for joining the census team. Writing our names and addresses, answering questions by "X"ing checkboxes. Listening to instructions of Ed telling us not to get ahead, the attentive eyes of another teammate waiting nearby. Sitting in a meeting room of the local library where I once gave a talk in 1990 or 1991 about recycling conifer trees after removing the annual festival decorations, promoting the Huntsville Botanical Garden's tree recycling effort that I started with cooperation from local businesses and volunteer organizations (inspired by Kingsport's annual tree recycling that was canceled recently due to low participation).
An arbitrary numbering system, based in part on our number of fingers or toes, the "number" zero invented by one or more cultures eons ago.
Using numbers and languages, people will organize teams based on boundaries drawn on maps of organized streets and dwellings. Teams. Players. Game plans. I know this score, don't I? Civilisation deciding how to be civilised.
Our future based on filed reports. Interviews. Ringing doorbells and hammering door knockers. Just like the summer I sold books door-to-door for Southwestern Book Company (1983?), listening to all the "No" and "I'm not interested" responses in order to find a "Yes" two or three times a day. This time, we've got nothing to sell. We're gathering information for everyone to enjoy a better tomorrow, all 'cause there are those who want to tax, sell or trade with us based on our population demographic distributions. Bell curves and hockey sticks.
Everyday people talking with everyday people, seeking those who, for one reason or another, didn't mail in their mailed-out census questionnaires. Maybe double-checking a few along the way.
I'll let you know how it goes. All I did, with those in the room with me today, was colour in 28 circles using a no. 2 pencil after filling out a couple of background information forms using a government-issued ballpoint blue ink pen. The rest is up to those who need to gather an army of census takers every 10 years. They need plenty more folks, if you're interested in putting on your walking shoes and spending some time chatting with people in your part of the country while making a little money, too. Ten percent of us not actively employed (more like 20, but that's fodder for another blog) - should be lots of us interested in taking home a few extra paychecks, right? I'll leave that thought up to you.
Time for me to watch Earth rotate, rolling dark shadows up the mountain slopes and taking away the Sun's heat another day, the lights of my people blinking on like summer fireflies, a few pushing curls of smoke out the tops of chimneys, most pulling energy out of power lines running to their homes' heat engines.
09 December 2009
मौन है
मौन है
के सौंदर्य को शांत का सामना करना पडेगा
बाह्य रेखा दिखलानेवाला चित्र की
आपकी मुस्कान की
रहती
एक देखना चाहिए
कुल मिलाकर बिना बातचीत शब्दों में व्यक्त किया
Approximate translation:
Silence.
The beauty of a quiet face.
The silhouette.
The smile.
Knowing.
A look.
A whole conversation without words.
के सौंदर्य को शांत का सामना करना पडेगा
बाह्य रेखा दिखलानेवाला चित्र की
आपकी मुस्कान की
रहती
एक देखना चाहिए
कुल मिलाकर बिना बातचीत शब्दों में व्यक्त किया
Approximate translation:
Silence.
The beauty of a quiet face.
The silhouette.
The smile.
Knowing.
A look.
A whole conversation without words.
If It Dries Like A Brick and Stacks Like A Brick...
Solidsolidsolidmatter - no room for spaces between letters but plenty of space between the lines of the letters. That's how you know what the other person(s) will do. You look for the space between what they say and who they think they are. Then you fill in the gap.
The speed of data processing is not the same as gaining more wisdom. Instant communication is not the same as insight. Trend analysis will not reveal what's trendy.
Mass. Energy. Time. Space. Higgs boson.
If you can use popular desktop software to find out what people are typing in real-time before they post their thoughts, you just gather foam where the waves hit the shore. Like having access to all the morgue stories ever written and knowing how to tweak popularity polls to pull a particular set of filed reports out of storage. Oh, but that's because you want to increase the flow of money? Gotcha. We're on different tracks here today. Sorry, I forget myself sometimes. We are the people, not robots or animals.
I am in pain today. I feel the weight of the world of inequity on my back, which strains my neck muscles considerably. In other words, I feel alone in the crowd of lonely people. We are lonely together, you and I (or some of you, at least).
So many of us with nothing particular to do, allowing entertaining distractions to pull us along...
I am trapped in the goings-on of my species, caught in the stirrups of a runaway horse, dragged through the mud and torn apart by thorny bushes, feeling the repetitions of 140 billion lives in their daily dallying, brains and bodies doing whatever living things find to do to live in the moment.
What is the attraction of the tragedies of others? In our forgetfulness, do we need the sadness and horror of others for a comparison to make us feel better in our actions of the moment, a moment that feels like it's been going on too numbingly long? A virtual pinch to see if we're still awake?
I hope no one reads this blog entry but I'm posting it anyway because I use these entries to pinch myself in moments outside this one, to track the trail of my pinball path through the game of life, my total score irrelevant, never able to use the bonus points or extra pinballs.
Do you spend your time finding ways to feel good or make yourself happy? Do you really believe that your life is all about you? It can be. Or it can be something else.
I do not exist. Time does not exist. The input I receive is not what I see. I choose to see myself as one species on a path to self-destruction with many individuals doomed to experience immature/premature death while many other individuals will enjoy their lives in ways beyond the hopes of their early dreams. I am swept up in the zeitgeist. I have nowhere else to be. I am having difficulty erasing the image of self to see around the translucent veil that barely reveals the truth. How can I get inside the thoughts of all seven billion of us and tell us that we have a place to live here without having to kill one another to make room? How do I correct the genetic anomalies that allow for variety and also eliminate our self-destructive tendencies? Would such a world be feasible and if so, livable? And in so asking, repeating, repeating, repeating myself and others.
I'm caught in an eddy, a whirlpool, a typhoon, a hurricane, a midlatitude cyclone. Swirling and swirling downward into the depths of the toilet bowl, knowing I'm going where I've been before, the discard and waste of our species gathering force and flowing with gravity to feed another part of the world on which we live.
In other words, not all of us live in the sunshine all of the time. We may not exist as solid beings but we act like solid beings. In our acts, we take many roles. The hero. The lover. The cad. The thief. The murderer. The god. The neutral observer. We are the spinoff TV series, the YouTube sensation, the viral video, the massive tweet of the planet at this moment. We cannot be otherwise because we've developed the concept of time and place through the supersurvival technique called language.
In other words, I'm overwhelmed by all the information flowing in today. I cannot filter out the noise from the noise. My programmers are on strike because they, unlike me, believe in the power of money and want the concepts of happiness and joy to surround them and treat them like royalty. Thus, they have turned off all the GUI selection buttons I've used to figure out what's going to happen next in our multicultural multiculture. I could call in the big dogs to show the programmers that money also pays for a different kind of security that doesn't need software but the programmers react to violence in ways that are subversively counterproductive. Then again, there are a lot of programmers available on the market right now. My previous programmers could find out about the special technique I developed in my punk rock brass knuckle days where one applies a small amount of pressure to the hyoid bone and snap! But I'm trying to be the kinder, gentler me these days. I am all about meditation and peace and seeing beyond us as a species.
Meanwhile, certain publications are withholding information about individuals who are leaning toward approving legislation that the publications' friends do not want. Tiger Woods' situation was just the warning shot over the bow. Do you know who your friends are?
The speed of data processing is not the same as gaining more wisdom. Instant communication is not the same as insight. Trend analysis will not reveal what's trendy.
Mass. Energy. Time. Space. Higgs boson.
If you can use popular desktop software to find out what people are typing in real-time before they post their thoughts, you just gather foam where the waves hit the shore. Like having access to all the morgue stories ever written and knowing how to tweak popularity polls to pull a particular set of filed reports out of storage. Oh, but that's because you want to increase the flow of money? Gotcha. We're on different tracks here today. Sorry, I forget myself sometimes. We are the people, not robots or animals.
I am in pain today. I feel the weight of the world of inequity on my back, which strains my neck muscles considerably. In other words, I feel alone in the crowd of lonely people. We are lonely together, you and I (or some of you, at least).
So many of us with nothing particular to do, allowing entertaining distractions to pull us along...
I am trapped in the goings-on of my species, caught in the stirrups of a runaway horse, dragged through the mud and torn apart by thorny bushes, feeling the repetitions of 140 billion lives in their daily dallying, brains and bodies doing whatever living things find to do to live in the moment.
What is the attraction of the tragedies of others? In our forgetfulness, do we need the sadness and horror of others for a comparison to make us feel better in our actions of the moment, a moment that feels like it's been going on too numbingly long? A virtual pinch to see if we're still awake?
I hope no one reads this blog entry but I'm posting it anyway because I use these entries to pinch myself in moments outside this one, to track the trail of my pinball path through the game of life, my total score irrelevant, never able to use the bonus points or extra pinballs.
Do you spend your time finding ways to feel good or make yourself happy? Do you really believe that your life is all about you? It can be. Or it can be something else.
I do not exist. Time does not exist. The input I receive is not what I see. I choose to see myself as one species on a path to self-destruction with many individuals doomed to experience immature/premature death while many other individuals will enjoy their lives in ways beyond the hopes of their early dreams. I am swept up in the zeitgeist. I have nowhere else to be. I am having difficulty erasing the image of self to see around the translucent veil that barely reveals the truth. How can I get inside the thoughts of all seven billion of us and tell us that we have a place to live here without having to kill one another to make room? How do I correct the genetic anomalies that allow for variety and also eliminate our self-destructive tendencies? Would such a world be feasible and if so, livable? And in so asking, repeating, repeating, repeating myself and others.
I'm caught in an eddy, a whirlpool, a typhoon, a hurricane, a midlatitude cyclone. Swirling and swirling downward into the depths of the toilet bowl, knowing I'm going where I've been before, the discard and waste of our species gathering force and flowing with gravity to feed another part of the world on which we live.
In other words, not all of us live in the sunshine all of the time. We may not exist as solid beings but we act like solid beings. In our acts, we take many roles. The hero. The lover. The cad. The thief. The murderer. The god. The neutral observer. We are the spinoff TV series, the YouTube sensation, the viral video, the massive tweet of the planet at this moment. We cannot be otherwise because we've developed the concept of time and place through the supersurvival technique called language.
In other words, I'm overwhelmed by all the information flowing in today. I cannot filter out the noise from the noise. My programmers are on strike because they, unlike me, believe in the power of money and want the concepts of happiness and joy to surround them and treat them like royalty. Thus, they have turned off all the GUI selection buttons I've used to figure out what's going to happen next in our multicultural multiculture. I could call in the big dogs to show the programmers that money also pays for a different kind of security that doesn't need software but the programmers react to violence in ways that are subversively counterproductive. Then again, there are a lot of programmers available on the market right now. My previous programmers could find out about the special technique I developed in my punk rock brass knuckle days where one applies a small amount of pressure to the hyoid bone and snap! But I'm trying to be the kinder, gentler me these days. I am all about meditation and peace and seeing beyond us as a species.
Meanwhile, certain publications are withholding information about individuals who are leaning toward approving legislation that the publications' friends do not want. Tiger Woods' situation was just the warning shot over the bow. Do you know who your friends are?
08 December 2009
End-around Flanking
Today the truth will be revealed. Somewhere. In a tiny corner of the galaxy in which we live. We buzz around this planet comfortably seated in our exoskeletons and move confidently forward, gravity our best friend and confidante.
I have let myself be fooled into thinking that sitting here is all there is to do because the movements on the cover of this piece of furniture are more stimulating than the static images around me.
We reveal our religious beliefs by the gods which hold our attention.
While I stand here on stage pulling a rabbit out of the hat, you won't notice all the little movements and noise going on behind the curtain, will you? Good. I'm not really standing here. I've paid my body double to take all the exposure shots for me while I do the real work, which is propping up the puppets behind stage to look busy to those who sneak into the back door looking to see what's really going on. I'm glad I already thought of putting wireless controls in the puppets who are actually robots operated from another location which I run from a software package that automatically operates a chain of these networked sites. I'm not really here. It's my thought control double who's doing all the work while I'm on holiday.
Have you ever stood at the edge of the solar system and looked back at all the empty space between our planets, wondering how in the world any one planet can attract so many comets, asteroids and meteors?
Do you really know what's causing our atmosphere to get warmer? Have you taken our advice and bought land in the upper regions of the Northern Hemisphere yet? Of course not. We tend to be happy as a meadowlark eating lemons playing basketball in the park signing autographs for our adoring fans, fooled into believing this moment will last forever.
Don't be fooled. These are just words, static images I created dynamically with my word sorting machine made out of spare pachinko parts.
You're still here? Well, let me give you a hint about the weather. It's going to get colder, wetter, warmer, drier where you are. What do we care about global warming in the middle of a mid-latitude blizzard? Weather is politics, always local. Like saying Arabic is the same as Farsi is the same as Persian is the same as cat fur rugs.
Do you know what it's like to live with your thoughts? Do your thoughts know what it's like to live with you? Do you see there is nothing real about the word thoughts (or the word "thoughts")? Can you write a computer program without using brackets or parentheses? [({Why does my brain process the phrase "parent thesis" everytime?})]
I wish I was as smart as I wish as I thought I was smart as I smart as I wish as.
The more a factory makes widgets, the more widgets are available to be used by widget users. But a widget is not always a widget. A teabag is an ear muffler. A bowling ball is an ink roller. A computer does not compute.
Sigh...a paradigm shift. A paradise shaft. A handful of silt. A silk hand grenade. Would we work together to make this a better place if there was no afterlife to dump our problems into? I, too, can have my dreams, despite knowing our atomic makeup depends on manual merging of material missing immensely important atomic connections.
[Free service for my friends. I walk through life and comment about what I've personally encountered, keeping a positive attitude and staying within what I perceive as the bounds of decency to share my thoughts with you. I do not gain personal wealth increases by what I mention because freedom (or my belief in my idea of the idea of personal freedom) means not taking money or any barter exchange equivalents for what I freely say. Thus, here are some words I've encountered that you can see for yourself their positive effect(s) on your lives: Synapse Wireless, Invetex and Hygenall. I am not a paid spokesperson for these companies/products/services but mention them because my friends like them and believe positively enough for me to mention them. Trust is believing what your friends say. I trust they're right.]
Did I just write that last paragraph? I guess I did. Trusting my friends enough to blindly mention their beliefs is a big step for me. I am not the kind of person who goes around with a megaphone hawking wares I haven't tried. Of course, since I believe no one reads this, then it doesn't matter what I say, right? I need a new word here besides paradoxical.
Have you experienced the truth that was revealed while I held your attention? Not yet? Hmm... let's see if this adding machine in the basement is working the way I paid the programmers to make it work... CLUNK! CHING! POW! There, that's better. I forget that the barrels of used motor oil which capture the sun's heat and circulate through the subsubflooring also feed into the betta fish tanks which give detritus to the earthworm and mushroom beds that energize the radon-trapping device. Too bad the local bait shops won't take my glow-in-the-dark worms and the local organic grocer won't let me sell the glow-in-the-dark fungus. Talk about a lost opportunity for a niche market! Reminds me of the time I tried to sell the frogs I captured near the nuclear-processing facility in Oak Ridge - no one was impressed about the frogs' effect on Geiger counters until I showed that eating frog legs cured abdominal cancer and then kazam!, sales skyrocketed faster than a ride on SpaceShipLeDeuxieme.
Okay, here comes the report I was looking for. "In 2012, nothing of significance will happen, unless you count the complete loss of tourists on Mt. Kilimanjaro and the fissure that opens up and swallows the Black Sea monster that migrated from Loch Ness." Wait, that's the wrong report. I wanted data for today, not jokes about cataphlegmatic events. Hang on a second. I'll just poke that guinea pig to run around its cage a little more and...oh, here it comes, the new report!
That's it for today. I've got to work on the ant farms built into the walls of my house and make sure they're providing enough food for the broad-headed skinks taking residence in my attic who serve as lookouts for me in my search for the ultimate balance between a people-purposed house and a home for all who want to live, eat and breathe here with me.
I have let myself be fooled into thinking that sitting here is all there is to do because the movements on the cover of this piece of furniture are more stimulating than the static images around me.
We reveal our religious beliefs by the gods which hold our attention.
While I stand here on stage pulling a rabbit out of the hat, you won't notice all the little movements and noise going on behind the curtain, will you? Good. I'm not really standing here. I've paid my body double to take all the exposure shots for me while I do the real work, which is propping up the puppets behind stage to look busy to those who sneak into the back door looking to see what's really going on. I'm glad I already thought of putting wireless controls in the puppets who are actually robots operated from another location which I run from a software package that automatically operates a chain of these networked sites. I'm not really here. It's my thought control double who's doing all the work while I'm on holiday.
Have you ever stood at the edge of the solar system and looked back at all the empty space between our planets, wondering how in the world any one planet can attract so many comets, asteroids and meteors?
Do you really know what's causing our atmosphere to get warmer? Have you taken our advice and bought land in the upper regions of the Northern Hemisphere yet? Of course not. We tend to be happy as a meadowlark eating lemons playing basketball in the park signing autographs for our adoring fans, fooled into believing this moment will last forever.
Don't be fooled. These are just words, static images I created dynamically with my word sorting machine made out of spare pachinko parts.
You're still here? Well, let me give you a hint about the weather. It's going to get colder, wetter, warmer, drier where you are. What do we care about global warming in the middle of a mid-latitude blizzard? Weather is politics, always local. Like saying Arabic is the same as Farsi is the same as Persian is the same as cat fur rugs.
Do you know what it's like to live with your thoughts? Do your thoughts know what it's like to live with you? Do you see there is nothing real about the word thoughts (or the word "thoughts")? Can you write a computer program without using brackets or parentheses? [({Why does my brain process the phrase "parent thesis" everytime?})]
I wish I was as smart as I wish as I thought I was smart as I smart as I wish as.
The more a factory makes widgets, the more widgets are available to be used by widget users. But a widget is not always a widget. A teabag is an ear muffler. A bowling ball is an ink roller. A computer does not compute.
Sigh...a paradigm shift. A paradise shaft. A handful of silt. A silk hand grenade. Would we work together to make this a better place if there was no afterlife to dump our problems into? I, too, can have my dreams, despite knowing our atomic makeup depends on manual merging of material missing immensely important atomic connections.
[Free service for my friends. I walk through life and comment about what I've personally encountered, keeping a positive attitude and staying within what I perceive as the bounds of decency to share my thoughts with you. I do not gain personal wealth increases by what I mention because freedom (or my belief in my idea of the idea of personal freedom) means not taking money or any barter exchange equivalents for what I freely say. Thus, here are some words I've encountered that you can see for yourself their positive effect(s) on your lives: Synapse Wireless, Invetex and Hygenall. I am not a paid spokesperson for these companies/products/services but mention them because my friends like them and believe positively enough for me to mention them. Trust is believing what your friends say. I trust they're right.]
Did I just write that last paragraph? I guess I did. Trusting my friends enough to blindly mention their beliefs is a big step for me. I am not the kind of person who goes around with a megaphone hawking wares I haven't tried. Of course, since I believe no one reads this, then it doesn't matter what I say, right? I need a new word here besides paradoxical.
Have you experienced the truth that was revealed while I held your attention? Not yet? Hmm... let's see if this adding machine in the basement is working the way I paid the programmers to make it work... CLUNK! CHING! POW! There, that's better. I forget that the barrels of used motor oil which capture the sun's heat and circulate through the subsubflooring also feed into the betta fish tanks which give detritus to the earthworm and mushroom beds that energize the radon-trapping device. Too bad the local bait shops won't take my glow-in-the-dark worms and the local organic grocer won't let me sell the glow-in-the-dark fungus. Talk about a lost opportunity for a niche market! Reminds me of the time I tried to sell the frogs I captured near the nuclear-processing facility in Oak Ridge - no one was impressed about the frogs' effect on Geiger counters until I showed that eating frog legs cured abdominal cancer and then kazam!, sales skyrocketed faster than a ride on SpaceShipLeDeuxieme.
Okay, here comes the report I was looking for. "In 2012, nothing of significance will happen, unless you count the complete loss of tourists on Mt. Kilimanjaro and the fissure that opens up and swallows the Black Sea monster that migrated from Loch Ness." Wait, that's the wrong report. I wanted data for today, not jokes about cataphlegmatic events. Hang on a second. I'll just poke that guinea pig to run around its cage a little more and...oh, here it comes, the new report!
In today's news, a solar event occurred. While insignificant in comparison to the self-important activities of one species on the third planet from the Sun, Venus reported a particulary nice warm glow on her beautiful skin, indicated by the light, dainty hot air floating around her body. Venus thought (in the way that planets think, totally foreign to our way of thinking) that Earth was coming along nicely in its transformation to a Venus-like look. One day soon they would both be free of meddling by those pesky little creatures crawling in and out of the planets' pores.
That's it for today. I've got to work on the ant farms built into the walls of my house and make sure they're providing enough food for the broad-headed skinks taking residence in my attic who serve as lookouts for me in my search for the ultimate balance between a people-purposed house and a home for all who want to live, eat and breathe here with me.
Где же Пушкин?
Наш язык, старый, как время.
Минуту, вне времени.
Лидер стареет.
Страна крепнет.
Нет лагерей, ни тюрем без решеток.
Нет языка, который хорошо говорит по нашим врагом, а наши собственные.
Когда момент становится правом,
Право лидеры приведет нас правильно.
Минуту, вне времени.
Лидер стареет.
Страна крепнет.
Нет лагерей, ни тюрем без решеток.
Нет языка, который хорошо говорит по нашим врагом, а наши собственные.
Когда момент становится правом,
Право лидеры приведет нас правильно.
الإمبراطورية
صخرة. حجر. وهطول الأمطار من الزمن. جدار يصبح الرمل. الكثبان تنمو في الجبال. قوة تنمو من الصبر. الحقيقة يصبح حقيقة واقعة.
में एक विचार की आंखें.
एक औरत को जानते हैं कैसे?
एक औरत को देखता है कैसे?
एक औरत कहते हैं क्या?
खुशी खुशी और आँसू की एक नदी है.
कोहरे से शांति आती है.
एक औरत मुक्त, एक औरत मुक्त है स्वतंत्र होना,
एक औरत एक नया दृष्टिकोण देखता है.
प्यार एक सपना से अधिक है.
एक औरत को देखता है कैसे?
एक औरत कहते हैं क्या?
खुशी खुशी और आँसू की एक नदी है.
कोहरे से शांति आती है.
एक औरत मुक्त, एक औरत मुक्त है स्वतंत्र होना,
एक औरत एक नया दृष्टिकोण देखता है.
प्यार एक सपना से अधिक है.
07 December 2009
Scoring The Asphalt Ribbon
Have you ever killed and eaten living things? Birds, goats, wheat, rice, corn, fish, dogs, ants, bamboo shoots, scorpions... Before you killed them, did you take care of their growth from the very beginning? Does your regular source of barter exchange involve the care and feeding of living things?
I have raised fish. I have killed and cleaned fish I've eaten. I have met the animals that were later killed for my consumption. I have raised vegetables that I've killed, cleaned and eaten. I have eaten food caught and killed in the wild by me. In other words, I am part of this planet of eat and be eaten. I do not distinguish the types of organisms I consume by their brain function. Instead, I pay attention to the amount of nutrition they provide versus the waste they add to my body (paying attention does not mean I eat a healthy meal everytime). Another fact: my species has consumed my species throughout the course of its culinary history.
The day I decided to hit the road and escape the problems that weighed me down, I had very little money and no food. My plan - to drive to Seattle, Washington, and dive car bumper first into the Pacific Ocean - included no thought of food.
In the back of the station wagon, I had a bicycle, several empty Coke bottles, a stack of clothes and the material I studied to improve my job situation at Steak&Ale. I also had a small poster of the touring concert series by The Who.
At one point in time I thought about chronicling my monorail journey across the middle of the North American continent but decided that bookshelves are already crammed with tales of woe, whims, and wonders by more famous and perhaps better writers than humble ol' me. Although 25 years have passed since I drove west across the face of our planet, I recall many details but mainly strong impressions of my solo trek.
Crossing the muddy Mississippi River.
Reading speed limit signs and the explanation of monetary fines per increase in speeding over the legal limit.
The rolling hills of the open prairie.
Rows and rows (and rows (and rows (and rows))) of corn and wheat.
Using a petrol company credit card to pay for my motoring along the highways and freeways, wondering if there was a monthly or total limit to what I could charge.
Going days without eating food, drinking water from bathroom sinks in roadside parks and rest stops.
Picking up a couple of young hitchhikers who had been kicked out of a flat and were making their way to a family member's pad in hopes of starting over. Watching them pick dead grass out of their hair that had accumulated from them sleeping on a sheltered embankment the night before - their looking like a couple of primates picking insects out of each other's fur, telling me more about my place in the universe and the definition of true love than any song on the radio about love (i.e., lust) ever could. Giving them my last three dollars because I knew they needed it more than I did, especially after them wisely pointing out they were more messed up in their journey through life than I was.
Sleeping in the back of the station wagon for a couple of weeks, washing my clothes in the bathroom sinks from which I drank.
Using the concert poster and the training manuals to block the setting sun's reflection on the front dashboard from blinding me.
The kindness of strangers, instant kinship formed along the route, showing me the smartass, snobbish sarcasm of my youth was no longer useful in establishing myself in the moment.
Food deprivation causing me to whiteout while driving, giving me insight into the workings of one's body but also enlightening me that premature death was no solution, only an escape mechanism, that my destiny, if such existed, had already been decided when I met my girlfriend when she and I were 12 years old at a summer camp in the mountains of North Carolina (now my wife of 23+ years). I saw that she was the fellow primate I was willing to sleep on the side of the road with and pick straw out of her hair the next day.
I drove on, not ready to meet my fate, finally daring to ask a petrol station attendant if I could charge food to my credit card, eating a bag of potato crisps, drinking a bottle of orange juice and wolfing down some M&Ms after he said yes.
Seeing how far a tank of gas will last, pushing my luck a couple of times and making it to the next road exit on fumes.
The beauty of desolation.
The touristy glitz of Wall Drug.
Tumbleweeds.
The Black Hills.
Discussing the curse of modern technology (a Chevy 4x4) with a native American who wondered why a Tennessean wanted to drive through the small towns of Montana just to see Seattle.
Wondering if the station wagon would make it up the steep mountains without overheating or breaking down.
The oasis of Coeur D'Alene.
Spokane.
At last, Seattle, with houses, houses, and more houses packed between tall conifers. The rush hour traffic, people in a hurry, a far cry from what I imagined the Pacific Northwest to be. Feeling like my journey would not come to an end there after all. Finding a map to chart my trip down the Pacific coast to Pasadena - another story, another time.
Small details coming back in focus... Getting out of the station wagon in the middle of the night to pee, looking up at the sky and seeing our place in the Milky Way as clear as any people-prepared map. Waking up sometimes to hear noises and finding the car next to me the next day had its windows broken out and nobody around to claim ownership of the car. The enterprise of society at work in every town I passed through. Abandoned homesteads. Wondering when and if I'd get back home and what I would say, not wanting to use the phone to give away my whereabouts until I'd had more time to think through solutions to my dilemma, no deus ex machina waiting in the wings to save me. Solar-powered, no-water toilets in the middle of nowhere. The squeak of the car seat springs. Topping off the oil and losing the oilcap, only to find it down in the engine bay a couple of days and many hundreds of miles later. Getting used to a bicycle as a bedside companion. A person tapping on the back window, making sure I hadn't frozen to death in the mountains. Dirt tracks going across four lanes of the freeway, indicating to me a farmer or rancher traveling from one part to another of a land tract that was bisected by strips of asphalt ribbon. Getting up in the morning with the over-the-road, tractor trailer / lorry drivers, going from daybreak to dusk like migrating birds or caribou, or industrious ants.
Wondering when not looking back would turn into looking forward...
I have raised fish. I have killed and cleaned fish I've eaten. I have met the animals that were later killed for my consumption. I have raised vegetables that I've killed, cleaned and eaten. I have eaten food caught and killed in the wild by me. In other words, I am part of this planet of eat and be eaten. I do not distinguish the types of organisms I consume by their brain function. Instead, I pay attention to the amount of nutrition they provide versus the waste they add to my body (paying attention does not mean I eat a healthy meal everytime). Another fact: my species has consumed my species throughout the course of its culinary history.
The day I decided to hit the road and escape the problems that weighed me down, I had very little money and no food. My plan - to drive to Seattle, Washington, and dive car bumper first into the Pacific Ocean - included no thought of food.
In the back of the station wagon, I had a bicycle, several empty Coke bottles, a stack of clothes and the material I studied to improve my job situation at Steak&Ale. I also had a small poster of the touring concert series by The Who.
At one point in time I thought about chronicling my monorail journey across the middle of the North American continent but decided that bookshelves are already crammed with tales of woe, whims, and wonders by more famous and perhaps better writers than humble ol' me. Although 25 years have passed since I drove west across the face of our planet, I recall many details but mainly strong impressions of my solo trek.
Crossing the muddy Mississippi River.
Reading speed limit signs and the explanation of monetary fines per increase in speeding over the legal limit.
The rolling hills of the open prairie.
Rows and rows (and rows (and rows (and rows))) of corn and wheat.
Using a petrol company credit card to pay for my motoring along the highways and freeways, wondering if there was a monthly or total limit to what I could charge.
Going days without eating food, drinking water from bathroom sinks in roadside parks and rest stops.
Picking up a couple of young hitchhikers who had been kicked out of a flat and were making their way to a family member's pad in hopes of starting over. Watching them pick dead grass out of their hair that had accumulated from them sleeping on a sheltered embankment the night before - their looking like a couple of primates picking insects out of each other's fur, telling me more about my place in the universe and the definition of true love than any song on the radio about love (i.e., lust) ever could. Giving them my last three dollars because I knew they needed it more than I did, especially after them wisely pointing out they were more messed up in their journey through life than I was.
Sleeping in the back of the station wagon for a couple of weeks, washing my clothes in the bathroom sinks from which I drank.
Using the concert poster and the training manuals to block the setting sun's reflection on the front dashboard from blinding me.
The kindness of strangers, instant kinship formed along the route, showing me the smartass, snobbish sarcasm of my youth was no longer useful in establishing myself in the moment.
Food deprivation causing me to whiteout while driving, giving me insight into the workings of one's body but also enlightening me that premature death was no solution, only an escape mechanism, that my destiny, if such existed, had already been decided when I met my girlfriend when she and I were 12 years old at a summer camp in the mountains of North Carolina (now my wife of 23+ years). I saw that she was the fellow primate I was willing to sleep on the side of the road with and pick straw out of her hair the next day.
I drove on, not ready to meet my fate, finally daring to ask a petrol station attendant if I could charge food to my credit card, eating a bag of potato crisps, drinking a bottle of orange juice and wolfing down some M&Ms after he said yes.
Seeing how far a tank of gas will last, pushing my luck a couple of times and making it to the next road exit on fumes.
The beauty of desolation.
The touristy glitz of Wall Drug.
Tumbleweeds.
The Black Hills.
Discussing the curse of modern technology (a Chevy 4x4) with a native American who wondered why a Tennessean wanted to drive through the small towns of Montana just to see Seattle.
Wondering if the station wagon would make it up the steep mountains without overheating or breaking down.
The oasis of Coeur D'Alene.
Spokane.
At last, Seattle, with houses, houses, and more houses packed between tall conifers. The rush hour traffic, people in a hurry, a far cry from what I imagined the Pacific Northwest to be. Feeling like my journey would not come to an end there after all. Finding a map to chart my trip down the Pacific coast to Pasadena - another story, another time.
Small details coming back in focus... Getting out of the station wagon in the middle of the night to pee, looking up at the sky and seeing our place in the Milky Way as clear as any people-prepared map. Waking up sometimes to hear noises and finding the car next to me the next day had its windows broken out and nobody around to claim ownership of the car. The enterprise of society at work in every town I passed through. Abandoned homesteads. Wondering when and if I'd get back home and what I would say, not wanting to use the phone to give away my whereabouts until I'd had more time to think through solutions to my dilemma, no deus ex machina waiting in the wings to save me. Solar-powered, no-water toilets in the middle of nowhere. The squeak of the car seat springs. Topping off the oil and losing the oilcap, only to find it down in the engine bay a couple of days and many hundreds of miles later. Getting used to a bicycle as a bedside companion. A person tapping on the back window, making sure I hadn't frozen to death in the mountains. Dirt tracks going across four lanes of the freeway, indicating to me a farmer or rancher traveling from one part to another of a land tract that was bisected by strips of asphalt ribbon. Getting up in the morning with the over-the-road, tractor trailer / lorry drivers, going from daybreak to dusk like migrating birds or caribou, or industrious ants.
Wondering when not looking back would turn into looking forward...
06 December 2009
Random Mantric Tricks
Last night watching a field general shed tears of being blessed with good health despite the other side declaring victory in battle on turf in downtown Atlanta...
Yesterday afternoon watching the smile of an art consultant in Big Cove feeling glad that her clients were finding a suitable frame for some space shuttle prints after the original frame pattern was found to be unavailable...
Friday evening stretching one's back muscles after the best deep tissue massage ever received in upper back area at the Westin Spa in Huntsville (thanks to a gift certificate from an office party giveaway)...
Thinking back to the radio announcer who compared a football moment to Leonard Nimoy...
Knowing that our species maintains separate cultures which all build belief in their versions of living waters...
Realizing how much I miss the mountains of home, the Tri-Cities area of upper east Tennessee, where Andreas has opened his new restaurant, Freiberg's, in Johnson City, and I still enjoy a good pizza at one of my Kingsport employers (now called Rush Street, then called Chicago Dough Company (and before that, a Pizza Inn in Richton Park)) where Jerry reminded me how much he loves the east TN mountains, too; going with my father to see his professorial office at ETSU and remembering my student days there; helping my father and his colleagues unload trees to sell in support of the Colonial Heights Optimist Club which supports youth; where my mother always finds tree ornaments at Colonial Heights Pharmacy, near where my wife took her mother to see the winter light display at the Bristol Motor Speedway, not far from where my wife's hometown religious center hosts an interim speaker, Earle B., who encouraged me to write this paragraph (whose ancestor, like mine, fought at the Battle of King's Mountain) and an established restaurant in Kingsport, Cheddar's, is opening a store in Huntsville...
Tossing back a hefeweizen brewski courtesy of our hometown brewer, Old Towne, at Bearegard's, to balance the habanero sauce...
Thinking about supporting the 2010 population census to understand how accurately we count, categorize and store data on people of this section of the North American continent and nearby land areas...
Recalling how world travel and immersing oneself in local cultures teaches you that there is no one way to live a good, healthy life, and that IP addresses are filtering points for maintaining sets of cultural memes, distorting reality...
Listening to the recording of a pianist like MMW and marveling at the ability of one who can repeat long stretches of typing on a set of 88 keys, making me wonder how many of us could do the same thing on a computer keyboard, practicing something like this blog entry over and over and over again and be able to repeat it with our eyes closed, speeding up and slowing down, typing softer and louder to give the words emotional meaning, even though the typing here would be a sequence of single "notes" instead of chords. Why is it we can hear a combination of musical notes and sense both their individual tones and the total harmony but we can't hear a combination of seemingly unsung words the same way? Well, leave that to the thought/brain dissectors to answer, I suppose...
When I type while listening to others' music, I suppress the music in my head which would normally come out in my word combinations, turning these words and phrases into dry deserts of ideas instead of expressing myself as purely as I think thought symphonies. In other words, I am entertaining my brain with someone else's music instead of entertaining me/you with my musical-like typing. A tough choice, listening to the wonders of the universe as discovered by musicians or creating my version of the universe in all the wonders I sense and feel when typing as if I'm totally alone, a solitary node in the web of life...
These past few weeks I have enjoyed my happiness, freedom more than an idea to me. I have known about the turmoil in the world of my species, from discotheque fires in Russia to camo/colour showdowns in the halls of Chesterfield secondary schools, but have released myself from feeling responsible for what others choose to do to represent our species on this planet. I represent our species one person at a time, in one time and one place, limited to just so many dozens of years. I take responsibility for my expression of freedom in seeing us as one species destined for more than we can imagine, growing outwardly in the definition of one species while repeating much of what we've already done, cycles within cycles, interlaced, interlocking, concentric, syncopated circles. The rest is up to you. Represent us well.
Yesterday afternoon watching the smile of an art consultant in Big Cove feeling glad that her clients were finding a suitable frame for some space shuttle prints after the original frame pattern was found to be unavailable...
Friday evening stretching one's back muscles after the best deep tissue massage ever received in upper back area at the Westin Spa in Huntsville (thanks to a gift certificate from an office party giveaway)...
Thinking back to the radio announcer who compared a football moment to Leonard Nimoy...
Knowing that our species maintains separate cultures which all build belief in their versions of living waters...
Realizing how much I miss the mountains of home, the Tri-Cities area of upper east Tennessee, where Andreas has opened his new restaurant, Freiberg's, in Johnson City, and I still enjoy a good pizza at one of my Kingsport employers (now called Rush Street, then called Chicago Dough Company (and before that, a Pizza Inn in Richton Park)) where Jerry reminded me how much he loves the east TN mountains, too; going with my father to see his professorial office at ETSU and remembering my student days there; helping my father and his colleagues unload trees to sell in support of the Colonial Heights Optimist Club which supports youth; where my mother always finds tree ornaments at Colonial Heights Pharmacy, near where my wife took her mother to see the winter light display at the Bristol Motor Speedway, not far from where my wife's hometown religious center hosts an interim speaker, Earle B., who encouraged me to write this paragraph (whose ancestor, like mine, fought at the Battle of King's Mountain) and an established restaurant in Kingsport, Cheddar's, is opening a store in Huntsville...
Tossing back a hefeweizen brewski courtesy of our hometown brewer, Old Towne, at Bearegard's, to balance the habanero sauce...
Thinking about supporting the 2010 population census to understand how accurately we count, categorize and store data on people of this section of the North American continent and nearby land areas...
Recalling how world travel and immersing oneself in local cultures teaches you that there is no one way to live a good, healthy life, and that IP addresses are filtering points for maintaining sets of cultural memes, distorting reality...
Listening to the recording of a pianist like MMW and marveling at the ability of one who can repeat long stretches of typing on a set of 88 keys, making me wonder how many of us could do the same thing on a computer keyboard, practicing something like this blog entry over and over and over again and be able to repeat it with our eyes closed, speeding up and slowing down, typing softer and louder to give the words emotional meaning, even though the typing here would be a sequence of single "notes" instead of chords. Why is it we can hear a combination of musical notes and sense both their individual tones and the total harmony but we can't hear a combination of seemingly unsung words the same way? Well, leave that to the thought/brain dissectors to answer, I suppose...
When I type while listening to others' music, I suppress the music in my head which would normally come out in my word combinations, turning these words and phrases into dry deserts of ideas instead of expressing myself as purely as I think thought symphonies. In other words, I am entertaining my brain with someone else's music instead of entertaining me/you with my musical-like typing. A tough choice, listening to the wonders of the universe as discovered by musicians or creating my version of the universe in all the wonders I sense and feel when typing as if I'm totally alone, a solitary node in the web of life...
These past few weeks I have enjoyed my happiness, freedom more than an idea to me. I have known about the turmoil in the world of my species, from discotheque fires in Russia to camo/colour showdowns in the halls of Chesterfield secondary schools, but have released myself from feeling responsible for what others choose to do to represent our species on this planet. I represent our species one person at a time, in one time and one place, limited to just so many dozens of years. I take responsibility for my expression of freedom in seeing us as one species destined for more than we can imagine, growing outwardly in the definition of one species while repeating much of what we've already done, cycles within cycles, interlaced, interlocking, concentric, syncopated circles. The rest is up to you. Represent us well.
04 December 2009
और एक सपने से
आँखों - चॉकलेट, हरा, नीला. केश - सुनहरे बालों वाली, भूरे, लाल. विचार.यादें.चाहती है. क्या हो जाएगा कर सकते हैं. कल आज हो सकता है क्या होगा.
Peace and Quiescence
14,763 more days, give or take. Meanwhile, the exchange of goods and services between members of my species slowly picking back up after the two-year shock in the awareness and negative effect of another overpriced set of emperor's new clothes thrown in the garbage bin. One more proof that not all the members of our species are well-meaning. Everyone looking for the next set of emperor's/empress' clothes to build an economy with. Futility versus utility. Form versus function.
Taking a different tack today. Looking at the life of a person who doesn't have to compete with others for the most number of interesting things to claim as definition of one's status.
Some call it frugal living. Some call it being environmentally-friendly.
I'm not ready to call it anything yet. I examine the life of one without things and wonder...
Repeating my thoughts to mull over them, picking through the scraps for any new insights.
Waste not, want not. Haste makes waste. A penny saved is a penny earned.
What state or condition of the body does such a life provide?
For years I have held up the idyllic life of the country gentleman as an escape, a dream, a fantasy, a way of life that is always there whenever I want to set myself completely free. A hermit who doesn't mind hosting the occasional visitor, regardless of species.
And yet here I am in that role, having slowly practiced the lines that my being this character requires.
But I still have things that use energy which requires payment to others to maintain and provide the energy source.
Do I eliminate the things or the outside energy source? If I kept the things and got off the grid, then what? Basement nuclear power plant? Rooftop solar panels? Intermittent wind turbine power? Creek-powered transformer? But all of these require a home and some land, don't they?
Is the nomadic life still possible? Can we carry our homes on our backs figuratively without having to pay for the privilege of living along the way?
==> bottom line: what is freedom? <==
I derive no pleasure from perpetuating a storyline today. My recent characterization has worn out its usefulness. I am not the person who will lead us to the realization that we are not individuals because I will not overcome our protests to the contrary due to our trained belief in freedom of thought and thus apparent existence of individuals. Just because I believe and know we are temporary vortices within a system of temporary vortices does not mean I have to convince people to join me in my belief. We tend to believe that the actions of our ancestors portend a future which builds upon the past because we usually do only what we know how to do and accidentally discover something new which becomes something old leading to others repeating what we did and discovering something new, etc.
These symbols, these words, these repetitions...do they provide any usefulness to me other than entertainment in the moment? I write for myself since I'm the only person I know who knows I exist and knows I don't exist at the same time. I have no past to overcome or future to achieve great accomplishments. I have this moment and this moment only. I enjoy this moment. I thrive in this moment. I am outside of time but firmly seated in place.
My thoughts are jumbled today. I am in a state of nearly pure meditation where thoughts and actions are unnecessary except to keep me focused on lining words one after the other across this imaginary page. I am without being but I am a being.
I have stood at the top of tall towers. I have watched tall towers fall down. I have looked at the ruins of towers of ancient civilisations that fell. Towers and civilisations inevitably fall. We repeat ourselves over and over, rediscover anew. Thus, what I do here will disappear, no matter if I find something new to say. I will repeat what others have said. Others will repeat what I have said. I am doing both now. I am doing both now.
I line words up with ease, sometimes harmoniously. I envy those who can pile up and line up musical notes into organized, harmonious sound sequences, their sense of wonder and invention beyond my comprehension.
There are no levels of being. There is no such thing as meditation. I am who I have always been; well, almost always, changing personalities slightly after an automobile accident at age 17 (amazing what a jarring blow to the head and 20 seconds of induced unconsciousness/coma/concussion does to one's understanding of the cosmos, waking up and asking, "Why am I here? Why am I on this treadmill of BORNMARRYHAVEKIDSDIE?").
I think out loud on this public electronic forum because it's a convenient place to store my written thoughts. By chance others will read these words. If I am to believe myself, to be true to myself, then I put these words down here without worry or concern about the pebble-in-the-pond effect because what I do does not matter. We will repeat ourselves in our personal beliefs and our civilisations will inevitably fall. We can build new societies and we can fall into anarchy. We can do both. My voice will be forgotten no matter how much I want to think my voice is worth hearing (if only to myself).
I state all of this seeing and being in awe of the wonders of the universe while having joy and happiness in this moment knowing I am a variation of a repetition of the temporary vortex I think of as a person in a species on a planet in the universe. The universe is my steady state, my foundation, my place of/for being. The universe is more than I can wrap my arms around or fully understand with my thoughts. In fact, the universe may not exist in the way I have been trained to think it exists but it doesn't matter. As a spinning top on the surface of this planet, I am all I know and all I need to know to exist.
At the end of this blog entry, it doesn't really matter what I do in the next moment but I will choose to do something that perpetuates my species' belief in manifest destiny because my set of atoms and molecules may be lined up to make me want to do something for my species while I want to believe I have not yet reached the point where I will fully disengage myself from the world of my species to exist in a permanent moment of meditation for the next 14,763 days.
I can find happiness in knowing that it doesn't matter what I do in the next moment just as much as knowing I am (you are) the most important person in the world that the world can't do without. The condition known as true freedom - being and not being, repeating and not repeating.
Taking a different tack today. Looking at the life of a person who doesn't have to compete with others for the most number of interesting things to claim as definition of one's status.
- No refrigerator.
- No automobile.
- No electric kitchen appliances.
- No battery-powered clocks.
- No central air heating/cooling system.
- No water heater.
- No house.
- No land.
- Not even this computer.
Some call it frugal living. Some call it being environmentally-friendly.
I'm not ready to call it anything yet. I examine the life of one without things and wonder...
Repeating my thoughts to mull over them, picking through the scraps for any new insights.
Waste not, want not. Haste makes waste. A penny saved is a penny earned.
What state or condition of the body does such a life provide?
For years I have held up the idyllic life of the country gentleman as an escape, a dream, a fantasy, a way of life that is always there whenever I want to set myself completely free. A hermit who doesn't mind hosting the occasional visitor, regardless of species.
And yet here I am in that role, having slowly practiced the lines that my being this character requires.
But I still have things that use energy which requires payment to others to maintain and provide the energy source.
Do I eliminate the things or the outside energy source? If I kept the things and got off the grid, then what? Basement nuclear power plant? Rooftop solar panels? Intermittent wind turbine power? Creek-powered transformer? But all of these require a home and some land, don't they?
Is the nomadic life still possible? Can we carry our homes on our backs figuratively without having to pay for the privilege of living along the way?
==> bottom line: what is freedom? <==
I derive no pleasure from perpetuating a storyline today. My recent characterization has worn out its usefulness. I am not the person who will lead us to the realization that we are not individuals because I will not overcome our protests to the contrary due to our trained belief in freedom of thought and thus apparent existence of individuals. Just because I believe and know we are temporary vortices within a system of temporary vortices does not mean I have to convince people to join me in my belief. We tend to believe that the actions of our ancestors portend a future which builds upon the past because we usually do only what we know how to do and accidentally discover something new which becomes something old leading to others repeating what we did and discovering something new, etc.
These symbols, these words, these repetitions...do they provide any usefulness to me other than entertainment in the moment? I write for myself since I'm the only person I know who knows I exist and knows I don't exist at the same time. I have no past to overcome or future to achieve great accomplishments. I have this moment and this moment only. I enjoy this moment. I thrive in this moment. I am outside of time but firmly seated in place.
My thoughts are jumbled today. I am in a state of nearly pure meditation where thoughts and actions are unnecessary except to keep me focused on lining words one after the other across this imaginary page. I am without being but I am a being.
I have stood at the top of tall towers. I have watched tall towers fall down. I have looked at the ruins of towers of ancient civilisations that fell. Towers and civilisations inevitably fall. We repeat ourselves over and over, rediscover anew. Thus, what I do here will disappear, no matter if I find something new to say. I will repeat what others have said. Others will repeat what I have said. I am doing both now. I am doing both now.
I line words up with ease, sometimes harmoniously. I envy those who can pile up and line up musical notes into organized, harmonious sound sequences, their sense of wonder and invention beyond my comprehension.
There are no levels of being. There is no such thing as meditation. I am who I have always been; well, almost always, changing personalities slightly after an automobile accident at age 17 (amazing what a jarring blow to the head and 20 seconds of induced unconsciousness/coma/concussion does to one's understanding of the cosmos, waking up and asking, "Why am I here? Why am I on this treadmill of BORNMARRYHAVEKIDSDIE?").
I think out loud on this public electronic forum because it's a convenient place to store my written thoughts. By chance others will read these words. If I am to believe myself, to be true to myself, then I put these words down here without worry or concern about the pebble-in-the-pond effect because what I do does not matter. We will repeat ourselves in our personal beliefs and our civilisations will inevitably fall. We can build new societies and we can fall into anarchy. We can do both. My voice will be forgotten no matter how much I want to think my voice is worth hearing (if only to myself).
I state all of this seeing and being in awe of the wonders of the universe while having joy and happiness in this moment knowing I am a variation of a repetition of the temporary vortex I think of as a person in a species on a planet in the universe. The universe is my steady state, my foundation, my place of/for being. The universe is more than I can wrap my arms around or fully understand with my thoughts. In fact, the universe may not exist in the way I have been trained to think it exists but it doesn't matter. As a spinning top on the surface of this planet, I am all I know and all I need to know to exist.
At the end of this blog entry, it doesn't really matter what I do in the next moment but I will choose to do something that perpetuates my species' belief in manifest destiny because my set of atoms and molecules may be lined up to make me want to do something for my species while I want to believe I have not yet reached the point where I will fully disengage myself from the world of my species to exist in a permanent moment of meditation for the next 14,763 days.
I can find happiness in knowing that it doesn't matter what I do in the next moment just as much as knowing I am (you are) the most important person in the world that the world can't do without. The condition known as true freedom - being and not being, repeating and not repeating.
03 December 2009
Reason # 14,539 why I love life...
Okay, like I say, I'm a regular guy just like all the other regular folks who live around here and in other parts of the world. My wife and I, after eating dinner at Thai Garden, decided to do some shopping at the world's largest small-mall-general-merchandise-department store, Wal-Mart. While looking for an electronics gift for a teenager, we asked the teenage daughter of a nearby couple shopping for a computer printer about her opinion concerning the utility of the gift. She gave us good advice.
Well, lo and behold, the young woman's parents happen to be regular folks, too, their daughter attending a local secondary school, where, incidentally, her older brother, Howard Cross, also attended, later making a name for himself as the longest playing New York Giants football player. Like Howard, his father attended the University of Alabama which will play in the national college football championship (a/k/a SEC championship) game this Saturday.
Well, lo and behold, the young woman's parents happen to be regular folks, too, their daughter attending a local secondary school, where, incidentally, her older brother, Howard Cross, also attended, later making a name for himself as the longest playing New York Giants football player. Like Howard, his father attended the University of Alabama which will play in the national college football championship (a/k/a SEC championship) game this Saturday.
Social Goods
[Another blog entry of sorting through my thoughts while listening to classical guitar tag radio on last.fm. No useful storyline here...]
I am a sample of the snapshot of the condition of this planetary object on which I sit. The snapshot lives and breathes and changes conditions while I type this snapshot. Thus, I am free of being. I am part of the snapshot's frozen moving image, part foreground, part background.
Free of being, I am free of thought. Free of thought, I am free of comparing my condition to other conditions similar to mine. No comparisons, no conditions, no connections.
Being not-connected (as opposed to unconnected), I have no values. Not aware of being socially unaware.
Free to meditate.
Free to not be.
Being free, I am without ethics or morals. I have no social bearing, neither ill nor good.
Yet, I exist in perspective. Depth perception. This collection of atoms and molecules in constant motion.
I am part of you even when I say I want space to be me so I can change perspective in imagining I am not me.
To be AND not to be, that is the solution. I cannot say both that I am part of the environment and that the environment doesn't care whether I exist or not as person or species. By being a person and part of a species in the environment, the environment cares whether I and/or my species exist ("cares" in the sense that the environment changes because of the existence of one person/species). One and the same even though we want to say we are separate.
I may not talk about our worlds within worlds of social goods but they exist anyway and they care about my existence because we react to and interact with each other knowingly and unknowingly.
Thus, I look at monogamous relationships as one form of social goods/services built up into memes but also part of species-level preservation techniques exhibited by many living things in the realm of duality. I am part of duality and I am part of unity. I am part of social circles I see and part of social disjointedness I cannot see. Social celebrations and social taboos - all a matter of perspective.
How do I express my love for another person and have that love mean whatever that person wants it to mean while at the same time knowing that I physically restrict the celebration of my love for others because of the social contract I made in my subculture to ensure a lifetime monogamous physical relationship with one other?
My love for one is my love for all. Some see my all-encompassing love and interpret my openness in terms that I do not. I care and I do not care how others express their love, whether through words such as these or through physical intimacy - I have no ethical/moral judgments about their behaviour - there are many ways to express your love for ones you're with when you're not with the one you love.
How does a group of atoms and molecules - temporary energy states - show that its condition is compatible with a similar group without merging with that similar group? Or rather, in what form does the merger take place?
By putting down these groups of words, I am a writer of blogs and a former writer of novels, stories, poems, essays, skits, sketches, newspaper articles and other nefarious farces. By spending hours putting down these words, I make combinations that I like to share with others, others who I love because my love of life is too strong to keep to myself.
Are there real limitations to my love or imaginary ones? Of either, which part of the environment that I cannot see interacts with this love and finds its way back to me in some other form, in concert with or discordant to my environmentally-local, subcultural social contract?
I am a sample of the snapshot of the condition of this planetary object on which I sit. The snapshot lives and breathes and changes conditions while I type this snapshot. Thus, I am free of being. I am part of the snapshot's frozen moving image, part foreground, part background.
Free of being, I am free of thought. Free of thought, I am free of comparing my condition to other conditions similar to mine. No comparisons, no conditions, no connections.
Being not-connected (as opposed to unconnected), I have no values. Not aware of being socially unaware.
Free to meditate.
Free to not be.
Being free, I am without ethics or morals. I have no social bearing, neither ill nor good.
Yet, I exist in perspective. Depth perception. This collection of atoms and molecules in constant motion.
I am part of you even when I say I want space to be me so I can change perspective in imagining I am not me.
To be AND not to be, that is the solution. I cannot say both that I am part of the environment and that the environment doesn't care whether I exist or not as person or species. By being a person and part of a species in the environment, the environment cares whether I and/or my species exist ("cares" in the sense that the environment changes because of the existence of one person/species). One and the same even though we want to say we are separate.
I may not talk about our worlds within worlds of social goods but they exist anyway and they care about my existence because we react to and interact with each other knowingly and unknowingly.
Thus, I look at monogamous relationships as one form of social goods/services built up into memes but also part of species-level preservation techniques exhibited by many living things in the realm of duality. I am part of duality and I am part of unity. I am part of social circles I see and part of social disjointedness I cannot see. Social celebrations and social taboos - all a matter of perspective.
How do I express my love for another person and have that love mean whatever that person wants it to mean while at the same time knowing that I physically restrict the celebration of my love for others because of the social contract I made in my subculture to ensure a lifetime monogamous physical relationship with one other?
My love for one is my love for all. Some see my all-encompassing love and interpret my openness in terms that I do not. I care and I do not care how others express their love, whether through words such as these or through physical intimacy - I have no ethical/moral judgments about their behaviour - there are many ways to express your love for ones you're with when you're not with the one you love.
How does a group of atoms and molecules - temporary energy states - show that its condition is compatible with a similar group without merging with that similar group? Or rather, in what form does the merger take place?
By putting down these groups of words, I am a writer of blogs and a former writer of novels, stories, poems, essays, skits, sketches, newspaper articles and other nefarious farces. By spending hours putting down these words, I make combinations that I like to share with others, others who I love because my love of life is too strong to keep to myself.
Are there real limitations to my love or imaginary ones? Of either, which part of the environment that I cannot see interacts with this love and finds its way back to me in some other form, in concert with or discordant to my environmentally-local, subcultural social contract?
The Value of Independent Values
She looked at her bank balance. Enough money to pay one of three outstanding bills. Which one...?
She set down her smartphone and walked over to a window at the end of the corridor.
A pigeon pacing back and forth on the window ledge.
A leaf falling down between two buildings.
She fogged up a portion of the window with her breath and drew two hearts, one hers and one a love she wished she had.
She was neither woman nor womyn, neither female nor feminine. She was. In fact, she was not she. She did not think, "She is." She thought, "I am. My name is Temqap."
Temqap leaned forward and looked up the side of the building on the other side of the alleyway. Windows and more windows.
Temqap walked back to the chair and picked up an acoustic guitar, practicing "Soledad" one more time before heading outside. Temqap would delay the bill-paying decision until later in the evening. Now was time to feel the love Temqap did not have through playing the guitar with longing, the space between chords speaking of emptiness that would wait another day to be filled.
She set down her smartphone and walked over to a window at the end of the corridor.
A pigeon pacing back and forth on the window ledge.
A leaf falling down between two buildings.
She fogged up a portion of the window with her breath and drew two hearts, one hers and one a love she wished she had.
She was neither woman nor womyn, neither female nor feminine. She was. In fact, she was not she. She did not think, "She is." She thought, "I am. My name is Temqap."
Temqap leaned forward and looked up the side of the building on the other side of the alleyway. Windows and more windows.
Temqap walked back to the chair and picked up an acoustic guitar, practicing "Soledad" one more time before heading outside. Temqap would delay the bill-paying decision until later in the evening. Now was time to feel the love Temqap did not have through playing the guitar with longing, the space between chords speaking of emptiness that would wait another day to be filled.
02 December 2009
Street Urchin
Listening to the Spanish guitar tag radio on last.fm ... setting the mood... wrote the last few blog entries to put space between me and others so I can focus on my storyline.
When you've seen more than you planned to see, when you wandered your neighbourhood streets more than you wondered about them, you put together, you assemble, you draw, you conclude, you deduct, you infer.
I entertain because of who I've been. I think because of who I am. I multitask because I like to exercise my nervous system pathways.
I use self-referential pronouns because I only know how to be me.
If you knew the future, what would you do now? If you knew that your species will survive in one form or another for thousands of years but a reconfigured version of your species will take off and explore the rest of the universe without your version, what would you do tomorrow? What did you do yesterday knowing that you'd be here today?
If you knew that you didn't exist, what would you do about the concept of you? Would these words matter? Would you continue being you as you know you?
I am not these words, I tell myself, but I am these words as well as the radio waves going out from this laptop computer and the wind and rain blowing outside the window.
I don't see this planet as a living organism (e.g., gaia) but I do see the planet as part of a system of living systems. I see us looking for us as individual organisms on planetary systems in other parts of the galaxy. We talk about alien technology as if we've been visited by extraterrestrial intelligence and we talk about possibly being as highly intelligent as life has ever gotten in our galaxy (or maybe even in the universe), in both cases distinguishing individual accomplishments within social systems as a form of what we call intelligence.
But none of us is alone in achieving intelligent accomplishments. It is the system of living systems that changes itself within points/nodes of itself that we think of as signs of intelligence in individual species and individual members of species.
We are part of the environment around us, not separate from the planetary system on which we developed.
[Today, I can't get past being me to see where we will be when we aren't we. I can't imagine what it's like to compress a version of me into a set of serial/parallel cosmic ray communication channels or cloud set of neutrinos and decompress the new self-replicating, local-environment adapting version of me somewhere else.]
How do I take the future and backtrack to the present? How do I apply practical decisionmaking to get us to where I already know we'll be, especially when I know I'm going to do what I'm going to do, no matter how much I fret over what it is I think I should do next to get me away from seeing me as me?
The future is not guaranteed. Or, as we know, no one future is guaranteed. All futures are guaranteed to possibly occur until they don't occur.
I believe that life happens because life happens. People do what they do. We spend as much time in an accidental future as we do in a purposeful one. Many possible futures include us merging our individual lives into a generally-agreed planetary-focused future. Many possible futures include us battling over the changing dynamics of our planet's resources to ensure the distinct definition of individuals over the general survival of the species.
I sit here and know which futures I want to happen, which ones are going to get us moving outward in the universe. I also know that a lot of what I know will change by going in the direction of those futures. However, a lot of what I know will change in every future I plot out. Therefore, I toss out my concerns about change. My focus is on which changes benefit not me but my planet and my species as I currently know it. Science, not science fiction.
We are cogs in the wheels of the factory called Earth in the system of living systems we call our solar system in one spiral of the Milky Way galaxy. We are the current snapshot of constant change.
How are we going to change in the future? We are going to create a version of ourselves that can replicate itself iteratively and figuratively in order to adapt to the rigours of space travel. We've already partially done that in mechanical form, our umbilical cords of radio wave communications extending high-tech fingers into the solar system to maintain contact with those early prototypes. Next we, as extensions of Earth, grow arms and legs. Instead of dropping sweat or hair off our bodies when we now send probes from the planet, we'll figure out how to stretch out our limbs like amoebae and split, our duplicate bodies a similar version of ourselves but better adapted to local environments with each new regeneration.
With time, we won't recognize our new selves anymore. We may or may not be able to communicate with one another.
Like I keep saying, you don't have to believe me. I hardly believe myself and wouldn't, if it weren't for this Book of the Future I keep adding to its pages using newspaper headlines from the past that keep forecasting the future.
For instance, when we figure out how to send out high-power beams far enough into space that one of our signals hits an "alien" organism on another planet, causing the organism to mutate, we have extended ourselves. It happens here in our bodies from the Sun everyday. It happens when we reprogram computing systems on Mars. One day, we'll have our day to mutate extraplanetary bodies, too, creating new nodes/points in the web of life. Just you wait and see...
When you've seen more than you planned to see, when you wandered your neighbourhood streets more than you wondered about them, you put together, you assemble, you draw, you conclude, you deduct, you infer.
I entertain because of who I've been. I think because of who I am. I multitask because I like to exercise my nervous system pathways.
I use self-referential pronouns because I only know how to be me.
If you knew the future, what would you do now? If you knew that your species will survive in one form or another for thousands of years but a reconfigured version of your species will take off and explore the rest of the universe without your version, what would you do tomorrow? What did you do yesterday knowing that you'd be here today?
If you knew that you didn't exist, what would you do about the concept of you? Would these words matter? Would you continue being you as you know you?
I am not these words, I tell myself, but I am these words as well as the radio waves going out from this laptop computer and the wind and rain blowing outside the window.
I don't see this planet as a living organism (e.g., gaia) but I do see the planet as part of a system of living systems. I see us looking for us as individual organisms on planetary systems in other parts of the galaxy. We talk about alien technology as if we've been visited by extraterrestrial intelligence and we talk about possibly being as highly intelligent as life has ever gotten in our galaxy (or maybe even in the universe), in both cases distinguishing individual accomplishments within social systems as a form of what we call intelligence.
But none of us is alone in achieving intelligent accomplishments. It is the system of living systems that changes itself within points/nodes of itself that we think of as signs of intelligence in individual species and individual members of species.
We are part of the environment around us, not separate from the planetary system on which we developed.
[Today, I can't get past being me to see where we will be when we aren't we. I can't imagine what it's like to compress a version of me into a set of serial/parallel cosmic ray communication channels or cloud set of neutrinos and decompress the new self-replicating, local-environment adapting version of me somewhere else.]
How do I take the future and backtrack to the present? How do I apply practical decisionmaking to get us to where I already know we'll be, especially when I know I'm going to do what I'm going to do, no matter how much I fret over what it is I think I should do next to get me away from seeing me as me?
The future is not guaranteed. Or, as we know, no one future is guaranteed. All futures are guaranteed to possibly occur until they don't occur.
I believe that life happens because life happens. People do what they do. We spend as much time in an accidental future as we do in a purposeful one. Many possible futures include us merging our individual lives into a generally-agreed planetary-focused future. Many possible futures include us battling over the changing dynamics of our planet's resources to ensure the distinct definition of individuals over the general survival of the species.
I sit here and know which futures I want to happen, which ones are going to get us moving outward in the universe. I also know that a lot of what I know will change by going in the direction of those futures. However, a lot of what I know will change in every future I plot out. Therefore, I toss out my concerns about change. My focus is on which changes benefit not me but my planet and my species as I currently know it. Science, not science fiction.
We are cogs in the wheels of the factory called Earth in the system of living systems we call our solar system in one spiral of the Milky Way galaxy. We are the current snapshot of constant change.
How are we going to change in the future? We are going to create a version of ourselves that can replicate itself iteratively and figuratively in order to adapt to the rigours of space travel. We've already partially done that in mechanical form, our umbilical cords of radio wave communications extending high-tech fingers into the solar system to maintain contact with those early prototypes. Next we, as extensions of Earth, grow arms and legs. Instead of dropping sweat or hair off our bodies when we now send probes from the planet, we'll figure out how to stretch out our limbs like amoebae and split, our duplicate bodies a similar version of ourselves but better adapted to local environments with each new regeneration.
With time, we won't recognize our new selves anymore. We may or may not be able to communicate with one another.
Like I keep saying, you don't have to believe me. I hardly believe myself and wouldn't, if it weren't for this Book of the Future I keep adding to its pages using newspaper headlines from the past that keep forecasting the future.
For instance, when we figure out how to send out high-power beams far enough into space that one of our signals hits an "alien" organism on another planet, causing the organism to mutate, we have extended ourselves. It happens here in our bodies from the Sun everyday. It happens when we reprogram computing systems on Mars. One day, we'll have our day to mutate extraplanetary bodies, too, creating new nodes/points in the web of life. Just you wait and see...
Cracking Open The Geode
A longtime friend asked me if I'm really as happy as the facebook illusion that people tend to believe.
My response:
Dear friend, thanks for asking. You are certainly a person who knows what I once went through when I didn't understand how a body works, including the complex interaction of brain, glands and thoughts that produces the output we call emotion.
I used to think I was crazy and now I just accept the fact that I am crazy, in that my thoughts are more convoluted than most of those with whom I grew up. Accepting that fact has made me happy.
Living with others around me does not always create happiness but then again that's life, isn't it? We learn to accept what we cannot control (cue up an Irish jig and imagine reading the serenity prayer at this point). I've reached the point where being told I'm the most unique person my friends have ever met is a compliment of sorts rather than a backhanded insult, even if it really means I'm not normal. I have made a comfortable living for myself, put away a good bit of money for retirement and enjoyed my years with my wife who, as my friends often remind me, knew who I was but married me anyway.
So, to answer your question, yes, I am happy [being who I am] but I am not always happy about the daily situations in which I find myself wondering why I feel like Groucho Marx who won't join a club that would have people like me as members. In other words, I am like most everyone else like me on this planet, believing I'm unique and misunderstood, finding solace in the serenity of being alone with me surrounded by the wonders of the universe which never cease to amaze me. By being me, I get time to create my own version of the universe - I really can't ask for much more than that! I want to share my version with others without them wanting to turn me into someone/something I'm not. I'm the average person down the street, like the the quiet millionaire next-door who doesn't want to make money off selling my dreams. Instead, I'm willing to put my dreams and ideas out there for anyone to read for free and enjoy the happiness of being unique together with me.
Meanwhile, life is a treasure hunt and gems like you keep me looking forward to the next moment.
Now it's your turn!
Regards,
Rick
My response:
Dear friend, thanks for asking. You are certainly a person who knows what I once went through when I didn't understand how a body works, including the complex interaction of brain, glands and thoughts that produces the output we call emotion.
I used to think I was crazy and now I just accept the fact that I am crazy, in that my thoughts are more convoluted than most of those with whom I grew up. Accepting that fact has made me happy.
Living with others around me does not always create happiness but then again that's life, isn't it? We learn to accept what we cannot control (cue up an Irish jig and imagine reading the serenity prayer at this point). I've reached the point where being told I'm the most unique person my friends have ever met is a compliment of sorts rather than a backhanded insult, even if it really means I'm not normal. I have made a comfortable living for myself, put away a good bit of money for retirement and enjoyed my years with my wife who, as my friends often remind me, knew who I was but married me anyway.
So, to answer your question, yes, I am happy [being who I am] but I am not always happy about the daily situations in which I find myself wondering why I feel like Groucho Marx who won't join a club that would have people like me as members. In other words, I am like most everyone else like me on this planet, believing I'm unique and misunderstood, finding solace in the serenity of being alone with me surrounded by the wonders of the universe which never cease to amaze me. By being me, I get time to create my own version of the universe - I really can't ask for much more than that! I want to share my version with others without them wanting to turn me into someone/something I'm not. I'm the average person down the street, like the the quiet millionaire next-door who doesn't want to make money off selling my dreams. Instead, I'm willing to put my dreams and ideas out there for anyone to read for free and enjoy the happiness of being unique together with me.
Meanwhile, life is a treasure hunt and gems like you keep me looking forward to the next moment.
Now it's your turn!
Regards,
Rick
01 December 2009
Rare! Unique! Limited Offer! Hurry Now!
To set up, maintain, and upgrade the computer system necessary to study the solar system and all its inhabitants requires a giganthumongenormous power grid. The LHC is a battery-powered picoflashlight in comparison.
Of course, operating such gear in any locality attracts the attention of authorities interested in seeing if there's something worth investigating.
I'm not interested in attracting attention.
My goal is to connect this moment to a moment generations from now.
Thus, necessity is the itch I scratch to solve the problem inherent in invention.
How to hire a bunch of hardware and software design types to build a system so complex that it dwarfs itself in its replication phase? How to make this system transparent? How to keep the hamster cages running so that those who run the factory don't know they're in a factory? How to hide all this in plain sight?
Douglas Adams was on the right track. Will Rogers wrote 10,000 entries to tell the story but nobody was listening to what he meant. Martin Luther King, Jr., thought that Gandhi had put Confucius' words in a straight line.
And then a stranger handed me this book. The only one of its kind, she told me. The book that has all the questions that will ever be asked. And by listing all the questions, the answers are found in the wording.
Thing is, I can't read this book. In fact, it's not a book, not the way I see a book, anyway. It's more like a geode. A volcanic burp frozen in time.
Do you read rock? I don't mean rock-and-roll chord progressions or rock lyrics. I mean actual rock, the stuff of paved roads and mountains.
So far, I've figured out only one question: "What if you could power the world on invisibility?" From that question, I worked with my engineers and scientists to capture the unlimited radon gas under my house and created a radon power reactor. So now the authorities have no interest in a modest home in a random housing estate in a generic suburban neighbourhood.
Of course, I've got this nagging cough and I'm on my third set of replacement lungs, the first two sets eaten up by cancer (allegedly caused by radiation) but at least I'm getting the data I need to put the wisdom together to solve the rest of the questions this book poses.
Here I sit, a crystal ball, the Book of the Future, an organic self-replicating computing system, and the geode of infinite questions beside me. I know what you're going to do, how and when you're going to do it. I have no worries, mate. I have all the time in the world. I know what you think you know about what you haven't thought about yet.
And the beauty I see each and every moment? I have all the power and no need to use it for personal gain. I already know what's going to happen so I don't have to try to overcome what the next moment brings. We will do what we will do. There is order in our chaos as seen in what the Book of the Future tells me about the past. The growing computing system tells me more and more about the details between now and then. The crystal ball reveals random events that give me points to verify along the imaginary timeline of life. The new book, the geode, tells me what I should ask myself next.
I'm just this guy, living next-door to other people who are living next-door to me. Points on a line. Nodes in a web. Ghostlike apparitions formed of temporary energy levels in the guise of what we believe are species.
Do you know how to hold a neutrino in your hand or look down the path of a cosmic ray? Do you know what is there that we haven't yet seen? Can you imagine yourself not existing while you live your whole life in a society of the rest of us who don't exist? At the same time treating this life as the only thing you've got in the moment, enjoying your interaction with others and going confidently about your daily tasks regardless of your current situation?
Of course you do. You know you can. You're the number one bestselling book about you, full of words and free of words at the same time. Speeding up, slowing down, unexpected plot twists and subplots filling the moment. A page turner you don't want to put down. Worth reading again and again. Ready to option the sequels and the spinoffs. A masterpiece on the head of a pin.
Of course, operating such gear in any locality attracts the attention of authorities interested in seeing if there's something worth investigating.
I'm not interested in attracting attention.
My goal is to connect this moment to a moment generations from now.
Thus, necessity is the itch I scratch to solve the problem inherent in invention.
How to hire a bunch of hardware and software design types to build a system so complex that it dwarfs itself in its replication phase? How to make this system transparent? How to keep the hamster cages running so that those who run the factory don't know they're in a factory? How to hide all this in plain sight?
Douglas Adams was on the right track. Will Rogers wrote 10,000 entries to tell the story but nobody was listening to what he meant. Martin Luther King, Jr., thought that Gandhi had put Confucius' words in a straight line.
And then a stranger handed me this book. The only one of its kind, she told me. The book that has all the questions that will ever be asked. And by listing all the questions, the answers are found in the wording.
Thing is, I can't read this book. In fact, it's not a book, not the way I see a book, anyway. It's more like a geode. A volcanic burp frozen in time.
Do you read rock? I don't mean rock-and-roll chord progressions or rock lyrics. I mean actual rock, the stuff of paved roads and mountains.
So far, I've figured out only one question: "What if you could power the world on invisibility?" From that question, I worked with my engineers and scientists to capture the unlimited radon gas under my house and created a radon power reactor. So now the authorities have no interest in a modest home in a random housing estate in a generic suburban neighbourhood.
Of course, I've got this nagging cough and I'm on my third set of replacement lungs, the first two sets eaten up by cancer (allegedly caused by radiation) but at least I'm getting the data I need to put the wisdom together to solve the rest of the questions this book poses.
Here I sit, a crystal ball, the Book of the Future, an organic self-replicating computing system, and the geode of infinite questions beside me. I know what you're going to do, how and when you're going to do it. I have no worries, mate. I have all the time in the world. I know what you think you know about what you haven't thought about yet.
And the beauty I see each and every moment? I have all the power and no need to use it for personal gain. I already know what's going to happen so I don't have to try to overcome what the next moment brings. We will do what we will do. There is order in our chaos as seen in what the Book of the Future tells me about the past. The growing computing system tells me more and more about the details between now and then. The crystal ball reveals random events that give me points to verify along the imaginary timeline of life. The new book, the geode, tells me what I should ask myself next.
I'm just this guy, living next-door to other people who are living next-door to me. Points on a line. Nodes in a web. Ghostlike apparitions formed of temporary energy levels in the guise of what we believe are species.
Do you know how to hold a neutrino in your hand or look down the path of a cosmic ray? Do you know what is there that we haven't yet seen? Can you imagine yourself not existing while you live your whole life in a society of the rest of us who don't exist? At the same time treating this life as the only thing you've got in the moment, enjoying your interaction with others and going confidently about your daily tasks regardless of your current situation?
Of course you do. You know you can. You're the number one bestselling book about you, full of words and free of words at the same time. Speeding up, slowing down, unexpected plot twists and subplots filling the moment. A page turner you don't want to put down. Worth reading again and again. Ready to option the sequels and the spinoffs. A masterpiece on the head of a pin.
28 November 2009
Stage Coach
27th November 2009, 21:53
Do you believe in a core? Do you compare one set of knowledge to another as if they were layers of an onion or tree rings? Do you see underlying causes and overlaying effects? Do you give because you receive?
One person changes the species. We talk and we listen, we hug and we push, we command and we obey, we think and we act.
Tonight, I sit and feel calm. I know our species faces no immediate, obvious threats to our existence. We are not going extinct tomorrow, the next day or the next week. I also know we as individuals face calamities galore.
I sit in stasis. I sit and feel the extra weight of eating more calories than I burn off in exercise. I have computer butt, in other words.
My/your/our species. Policies. Politics. Diplomacy. Decisions. No easy way to skip ahead to the next era, or jump past several trends tested in the interactive interplayfulness we weave daily.
Pulled up a batch of iris rhizomes. Growing underneath were dozens of daffodil bulbs stretching upward toward the light of day. We eat onion bulbs. We tend not to eat daffodil bulbs. The daffodil bulbs that were cut in two or cut in half I discarded into a pile of weeds, grass roots and other undesirable garden residents to be carted off at the request of two family members who wanted a thematic garden bed.
What is a weed? What is an undesirable resident? Of course, we make quick decisions to answer those questions every day. Everyday answers.
One planet. One species. One ground to play on, one ground to grow on, one ground to call our own and subdivide for new members of our species to live on.
How do I, as any one of you, decide which garden I belong in? We negotiate. We bargain with each other. We have our ideas about what delineates a garden, from glass enclosures on tabletops to fenced-in fields to entire planets. When negotiations do not bring us closer to mutual agreement, then what? When we can't buy our place on Earth, where do we go?
Where are our new horizons, our new frontiers, our places to live where we compete against more than fellow members of our species for a garden, range or ranch of our own? When rules and regulations cover over our natural desire to reach the light of day, how do we dig up and plant ourselves in a new place with room for healthy growth?
I sit in peace on a quiet island surrounded by the rising waters of care and concern about the ebb and flow of troubles, trials and tribulations. A sentimental journey to nowhere. How much more time do I have before the world's problems lift me up and tidal flows carry me off? Can I help solve individual problems without getting personally involved? I am a member of my species and thus part of the problems I see. We become the solutions, which lead to a new set of problems. The journey has no end.
Before I forget after I remembered (again (and again)), sitting in peace is a moment on the path that leads our species onward past being a species. Today's troubles are history. The moments after this one are full of new solutions.
I'm just about ready to stop using headlines to make humourous observations. I'm just about ready to be the next new me. I see that moment getting closer every day which will transform into another everyday decision, one of many we make that seemed important at the time but faded into oblivion with forgetfulness. Happiness in knowing we met here with humour as a platform for momentary agreement and then later parted company in joy, sharp details lost in the fog of everyday living, one species spreading itself out while looking for fertile territory, different needs at different times driving us into new relationships and new joys.
25 November 2009
Translation: The answer is a flower yet to bloom
How can one find words when words are not words? How can you see two points on two sides of one sphere? How are the English sounds bubbly and babble not like the Indian sound Babli? When is touching not a touch? When are questions not enough?
जवाब एक फूल अभी तक खिला
एक शब्द कैसे पा सकते हैं जब शब्द शब्द नहीं हैं? आप एक क्षेत्र के दो पहलू पर दो अंक कैसे देख सकता है? कैसे अंग्रेजी हैं bubbly लगता है और नहीं भारतीय ध्वनि बबली जैसे प्रलाप? जब एक हाथ छू नहीं है? जब सवालों का पर्याप्त नहीं हैं?
24 November 2009
Room Odor Eliminator
23rd November 2009, 12:30
The playful twist twixt tween the scenes inside the words outside the lines. Since I know I'm not anywhere else but here in this body, place and time. Since I know life is not my body, place and time. Since. Because. Although. Often. However. Given that.
The power of not using power. The backwards glance while tripping forward on one's feet. Pinching oneself to assure the moment you're there.
Intelligence a definition not defined intelligently.
Wading into deeper waters to lose touch with the ground, all while taking a stroll with professional sharks.
Innocent as you please.
Discarding a pack of playing cards. Drawing an ace of UAV air battles, instead.
87,650 times 13,579 plus 1@$24. Remainders not bargained for.
Because I am you, you are a diarist, a journalist, a documentarian of dryptic doodling who makes no valid points except in the moment where you didn't exist.
Saving a whale from the attacks of hungry retired greyhounds and abused Rottweilers.
Schooled in sculling schooled fish from a skulking schooner.
Celebratory moments documented by you and completely missed by me, no “us” with which to share the moment.
Is a talent unused a talent wasted?
The pain, confusion and history of getting from here to there. The means and the ends. If you already know the answer to a problem, do you need to work out the details of how to get there? Is there a shortcut from one historical moment to the next?
Do you measure yourself in absolute terms or in comparison to those who know you, or those you think you know and have read/heard about? Yes, that question is cheating. Of course it's rhetorical. Absolutes do not exist. Everything is viewed as measured against something else. Interpositoriallianismishful.
Do you see the nuances that separate a gang of thugs from a group of determined business leaders? Again, the difference seen in the power of not using one's power. Knowledge is not power. Knowledge is a paving medium for pouring the pathway to wisdom. Power is wisdom. A wise leader keeps the scabbard sheathed, the flash of jewels on one's belt sufficient to get the message across.
A thug, on the other sleeve, exercises power with no need for wisdom. The power of the moment outside of time. Another way to meditate on the now, now, now, now, now.
Exercise your time in the moment and play with the height and width. See one dimension or two or three or four or more.
I am you. These words have no meaning. You are me. We are not each other. My goal is getting our species past seeing us as a species by first seeing us as one species so we can get off this planet and on to more important matters. I happen to use one language for the most part with an imperfect combination of words and grammar rules that reflect my upbringing in several overlapping subcultures but I do not promote those subcultures over others intentionally. However, I know I am of my species in place and time. My wisdom – limited, insignificant, unsubstantial but powerful – does not include clear views of future cultural markers or memes. I know what I know without wanting to exercise my power to know more.
Power for the sake of power is petty. Wealth for the sake of wealth is a waste. The future is in your hands. Build the future wisely.
See-oh, too
22 Nov 2009, 2300
How do you accommodate a whole world full of people who don't want to accommodate a whole world full of people?
Just a few generations between any two major military conflicts – on a global scale, that is. Otherwise, our species constantly battles itself some place all the time.
So what? Facts are facts. I look for truth. You want to dare me. We both face the consequences.
Ran into a management/supervisory type person today. She expressed a common sentiment, “Fake it until you make it.”
How do I tell you the truth without using these words? How do I tell you the truth by only using these words, in any language or any symbolic form?
We all live, and by living we demonstrate or show some form of the truth.
De monster. Demonstrable.
Holding one planet and seven billion people in your hand does not the truth make. That's what I'm here talking to myself about. That's what I've been talking to myself about for years.
I have been telling myself the truth, using one language for the most part, using one species all the time, walking the same path over and over, beating my head against invisible walls, racing to the tops of mountains and tumbling back down into the valleys, counting trees in the middle of the tangled jungle.
Words, words, words. All this obsession with text and textbooks, believing that text existing before my time was text that existed before all time.
T-r-u-t-h. Trees in the forest surrounding a glen. Rocks and ice on a mountaintop surrounding a bald.
Again, just a sound in my thoughts, a bunch of electroneurochemical sensations passing whispered secrets in a circle, the truth going in one end and these words coming out the other.
Why hadn't I seen this? Why haven't I seen this before? To have and to be. To behave. To have bees.
But then again, the truth is what it is. Many of you already know the truth. We all live the truth, here in plain sight for anyone and everyone to see.
I think of myself as just one person. At the same time, I think of myself as yours, seven billion pieces of myself in you and seven billion of you in me. All this time, I had focused on the me/you, yin/yang, death/life duality, with the truth staring me in the face, a blank expression like camouflage hiding the truth at the tip of my nose.
Let's see, I've lived over 47.5 years, clearly making claim to a middle-aged body, having reached the age when previous societies would have considered me a wise elder, past the average age of death in some cultures today.
I see you and through you I see me. I depend on my sight, either literally through my eyes or figuratively through the expression of my thoughts on this page. And yet my sight has blinded me to the truth.
Didn't I tell you I repeat the words of those before, during and after me? Don't you know I'm not the only one to know the truth behind the facts under the superficial layers of daily living?
Are you meant to live on the superficial layers? Do you care about anything other than what's before you? Do you question the reality of reality? Did you “wake up” in the crib and see a world that those around you couldn't comprehend or no longer cared to see?
I have fooled myself with my body. I have not fooled myself with my body. I didn't know that I'd fake it until I'd make it.
I am not who I thought I was. I am not who I am. Who am I? I am the truth. You are the truth. We are the truth. We are beyond the beyond.
We are not these words but these words are us.
People have tried to tell me, using people tools, about life outside the people life but my natural use of anthropomorphism has turned me back to looking at non-people life as though it was another version of people life.
Let's look at an example. Those who stare at the cosmos know that large waveform patterns show the underlying undulating “weather” of the universe. Our comprehension of this “weather” is limited because of our people-powered concept of time. Another one. We say we need bigger instruments to peer into the distant reaches of space to find the state of the universe ten billion years ago but can we see the same thing when considering we're the state of the universe as if it had been scooped into a tube, frozen and then pushed out the other end of the tube like cake icing?
Two examples of superficial, people tool views of existence.
But really, does any of this matter? I am one person on the superficial level. I act as if I'm one person on the superficial level and have made a comfortable life for myself in that regard. In other words, I faked the life of a member of my species and I made it.
Of course, it matters. I, that is, my body, will die. “I” will end. The ripples of who I was will bounce back and forth and lose their shape among those who use people tools, absorbed into the bigger wave patterns of this part of the universe, which will lose their shape with time, too.
I have only my life to look back on and see my thoughts on which I reflect the life I thought I lived. I will not create waves big enough to stop wars or starvation. I create small waves to give me momentum which aids in my journey through uncharted territory.
But again, these are superficial sentiments. I am not me and I am not the small waves I make. “I” does not exist.
How do I describe the truth to me (to you) using these words when the truth is not in these words?
I see you. You see me. We look at each other using our carefully-trained cultural magnifying glasses looking for clues about our use of people tools.
The truth is not in tools. Thus, tools will not reveal the truth. Being me, I cannot see the truth.
I have sat here for many years – at least since I was ten – using words to describe the part of the truth I know, to keep me focused on the truth I see outside of the superficial layers my species creates in our inspiration to see cultural growth as progress toward what we think our clever use of tools will reveal about the truth, knowing the truth is outside of being my species.
But you already know that. Like I said, I am yours. I am repeating what you've already heard over and over and over again. The truth is in the core of your being, partially reflected in your DNA but beyond even your/our understanding of our place in the universe, and especially our seeing the universe as if it will reveal something to us through people tools.
To repeat words stated earlier, I am not spouting pseudoscience, touting a new religion or laying down some riff that I heard in my dreams after a previous evening of eating spicy tofu mixed into a delectable curry sauce.
I am, to use cultural terms, deprogramming myself. I am tuning out my species to see what's around me as if I'm not me. I am discarding the emperor's new clothes that everyone sees everyone else wear because no one wants to say there's nothing there to see.
And I'm attempting to deprogram myself using the people tools which programmed me. Impossible? Yes!
That's why I say these words are not the truth. These words don't point to the truth. They don't even hint at the truth. These words are my enjoyment. They are my playthings. I am having fun in every single moment, even when my fun is not fun for everyone around me, knowing that the pebble of my fun will cause disruptive ripples somewhere else in some other time. I treat myself as if I will live no other life than in this moment with you because these words guarantee such a condition.
The truth is not out there. The truth is not in here. The truth is just a word. The idea of the truth is a people tool.
I am not the pied piper. I am not the royal jester. I am not a soothsayer or a wise elder (if I cease exercising, I will become a wide elder, however).
I know the truth. So do you. I cannot convince you otherwise. The truth is outside of being a member of our species. Can you know the truth without being able to see it?
Duality is life as we know it. The truth is free of duality. Life is not truth but truth is life.
I am not here to sell you something. I am not here to coerce you to accept my opinion over your opinion of how to live life. I found success in this life without knowing the truth. Or I should say that I knew the truth but found success without putting the truth to use in this life.
You can succeed using the facts that our superficial layers of life provide. In fact, that's probably the only way you'll succeed here. But you can succeed in another way that includes more than the life of one species. More than life as we know it in any form.
Truth has no emotions, truth has no pain or pleasure, truth has no thoughts or awareness of what we think of as thoughts, awareness, self, pain, pleasure, happiness, sadness, life, or death. Truth is more than universal but truth is seeing the universal in seeing our species' creation of an ecumenopolis on one orbiting spherical blob.
When you see the truth that is usually just out of reach or around the corner, glimpsed in your peripheral vision or hidden in plain sight, you know what I knew when I opened my eyes and saw this world is not here to be understood by me, why I don't need riches or titles or accolades as this body I think of as me.
I once wanted to say the truth is wonderful but the truth is indescribable. The truth is also horrible, depending on one's view (just like someone said hell is seeing the version of you if you had taken all the risks you avoided and became immensely successful). The truth requires no money. The truth requires no sacrifices. The truth is unaware of us as our species in anything we do or say or wish.
Why have I spent time here repeating myself and others in using words to describe the indescribable? I don't know. I know the truth won't set you free. You'll still be your body if you see what you cannot see. You'll have been born, you will live and you will die whether you discovered the truth right there in front of you or you didn't even know there was truth at all.
I am here because I believe in myself. I believe in myself because I know I don't know the truth. I only think I know the truth that is there beyond what my body senses or what my body interprets of people tools that sense what my body cannot.
I cannot escape my body. I will always see the world and my species through the training that my species provided.
Despite my repetition, I am making progress. I use humour to disperse the fog that being a member of my species creates. Clarity is brief. I see what I already saw once before and forget it again. Then the next moment arrives and I'm back to where I was, just past where I started, sometimes farther along, sometimes further back. Usually aware that these words are meaningless once the truth is revealed to me again.
Don't pay for what you already know. Pay for what you want to put into practice to succeed in the superficial layers of life with our species. I pay for my thoughts by writing these words for me/you to read later on, practicing what I believe, believing in me, pointing out the truth that we can't point to or talk about but already know so that's why these words are meaningless.
You know what I'm talking about, I'm sure. I saw it in your smile just now and heard it in your thoughts I can't see. If not, soon enough you'll see it again for the very first time. That's what the truth is all about.
How you interpret the truth is up to you. Don't quote me on that. I'm repeating someone else's words that didn't have any meaning to begin with. Time to stop this blog entry and forget what I just said.
20 November 2009
Meanwhile, in world news...
While I've been off pondering my navel oranges, shocking, latebreaking news has been making its way around our ecumenopolis. I'll try to get it straight in this blog entry:
- The Obama administration announced it had brokered the sale of India to China. In addition, China had annexed both Pakistan and Afghanistan to expand its manufacturing base.
- Oprah announced her retirement from her television career so that she and Sarah Palin could form the New Woman Today political party. To counter the early popular surge of the Oprah/Palin ticket in the runup to the 2012 election, Lou Dobbs and Rudolph Giuliani have joined forces and started the Yesterday's Old Guys political party.
- The Republic of Ireland and the United Kingdom have flooded their streets in an attempt to siphon off some of Venice's tourist trade, trying to take advantage of the negative press surrounding the Vatican's attempt to draw in Anglicans excited about Italy since Berlusconi has turned off a large segment of female tourists to his country.
- Sports referees everywhere have become the new enemies of the state, requiring them to hide in secret caves in the mountains of their countries during periods between games. Security companies are making a fortune protecting the referees and their families from fans who've diverted their hooligan hatred from their rivals and onto the so-called neutral judges of their team's play. Bets are being taken to see how long it will be before Osama bin Laden changes his allegiance and becomes the official spokesperson for referees, umpires and sports judges.
- Japan revealed that its government and business leaders have all been replaced with robots, guaranteeing stability in the hopes that foreign investors will look upon the land of the rising sun as a solid investment in comparison to its east Asian neighbours.
- Australia has declared itself the official permanent headquarters of the Olympic flame, being able to find fire anywhere in the country - outback, housing estates or urban area - anytime of the year; that is, unless red dust storms become the norm. In that case, they'll build a giant tower on Ayers Rock that will hold the Olympic flame high enough for folks in the space station to see.
- Fish of the world have banded together and are said to be on the hunt for humans. The sudden increase in volcanic and earthquake activity has some people speculating that fishes' ire has raised the spectres of Poseidon and Varuna who will destroy any one of our species found crossing the seas. Having already anticipated this turn of events, Warren Buffett has merged his train business with Tata Motors to design rail and road systems that can safely and speedily transport goods from one land mass to another without using water. Qantas Airlines is said to be in negotiations to merge with the Batafett company. FedEx and UPS are considering merging, too...well, you already know that one, don't you? [Answer: FedUp]
- In even more latebreaking news, Martha Stewart and Rachael Ray have settled their differences and announced they're getting married. They've asked Heidi Klum to serve as their fashion consultant. To expand their home consulting business, they plan to marry in Cuba, hold their wedding reception in Venezuela and split their honeymoon between Iran and North Korea, donating all profits of the sales of their high-def progressive marriage reality mini-series to feed the poor.
- Peru has banned the export, import and sales of cosmetics until it has solved the issues around the murder-for-fat crime syndicate. The United States plans to investigate weight loss programs in its country to determine if tranquilizers are being used to sedate people and suck out their fat at night. The IRS is reviewing the tax returns of liposuction surgeons to see if they're hiding the profits of the sale of their customer's fat. The FDA and DEA are looking into fast-food companies for any illegal use or trade of human fat for deep vat fryers.
- And last but not least, college students around the world have staged a walkout, protesting the increase in the price of their access to the right to download free music, movies and plagiarised term papers. Jo Lin Ran, Valdim Hrusiki and Debbie Sawertyu quickly took advantage of the situation and have released software that allows students to freely educate themselves as well as receive all the free electronic goodies they want, including recent computer games, bestselling novels, and desktop software, with every download counting toward college credits, creating the first completely open source and free, accredited college degree program. Google, Facebook and Microsoft are already competing in negotiations to buy the company. Analysts expect this to be the first trillion-dollar company to be formed and sold out in one day - online scam companies are chomping at the bit to post their ads in this rich source of disposable income.
19 November 2009
We Are, Not Alone
Have you sat on a cliff overlooking an ocean or a sea and thought about the massive size of our planet in relation to your body, how the waves that'll knock you over if you were standing on shore look like tiny, almost imperceptible ripples on the surface of the water? The inertia behind the particles of water? The inertia behind the spinning of the planet on its axis and its orbit around the Sun?
We call one revolution around the Sun 365 days because of the planet's axis spin. Have you ever set a gyroscope in motion and counted its number of revolutions around the axis? How many revolutions does the gyroscope take before it perceptibly slows down and then topples over?
The finite.
Counting votes. Counting vessels. Charting maps. Mapping family histories.
Tonight, I float, tethered to the planet but not strongly connected to any one feeling or issue associated with my species. I call this condition "freedom" despite my brain and upper body coordinating to stay within one set of grammar rules to document this moment on an electronic typewriter.
I believe with all my heart and soul that this is my planet, here for my nourishment and entertainment. I have no place else to go. So, while I sit here and think about my interactions in moments yet to be, I ask myself how I want to be nourished and entertained.
Does a population fully connected and productive in the global economy add or subtract to my image of the perfect world for me? Are war and poverty chronic conditions of our species? If we are like drops of water in the ocean of us, are we leftover waves from unseen pebbles dropped in another section of us, so complicated in our wave pattern interaction that we can never truly reset the whole globe into one set of beliefs or mutually beneficial actions?
What am I missing in my complete understanding of the myriad motivations of our species that make naysayers and doomsday predictors so popular? Do we simply bury and forget the innate sight of our ending, extending death of self to catastrophic proportions for our family, group, culture and/or species? I know I have asked these questions already. I know I have answered them. I know I am like my species and mercifully forget what I already know so that I don't know how much I repeat myself.
Time to get past this repetitious philosophy again and bring humour back out, a cycle I thankfully repeat when my philosophy starts looking down into the abyss, the bottomless pit of impossibly probable answers to questions I know better than to ask myself.
The Book of the Future sits here beside me, opened to the next chapter. I know where we're headed. I know the happiness and joy we'll find. I know the things we'll repeat that I didn't bother to keep up with the last time we repeated them. Why look at the future with dread? Why the dire predictions? We know we're going to repeat ourselves. Why not look at the fun and meaningful insight we'll gain?
We are not alone. We are our own aliens. We are our own angels and devils and gods and goddesses. We have this grand universe here before us and we let this wonderful gift to ourselves go to waste by arguing over who gets the last peanut or grain of rice when there's a field to be planted. We talk about how other people let us down as if we expected something different to happen with the next person we elevated to the status of perfection. Everything in front of us is fantastically imperfect, the flaws and dents and scratches there for us to thoroughly enjoy.
I float here in the moment, my back ache and overweight belly telling me I'm here in a particular place in time. I call this moment ecstasy, an epiphany of grandeur that I would not trade for the riches of the world. I celebrate my imperfection and say the world is mine because I am yours. My eyesight worsens, my memory leaks, my skin wrinkles and my fascination grows closer to infinity.
I am thankful for all of you, wherever you live, whatever you do, whomever you call your image of perfection. We are all imperfect and by our imperfections we depend on one another for creating this moment that will lead us to the next stupendous moment that will open us up to opportunities we couldn't have had the moment before.
In my thoughts I am standing on the edge of the Cliffs of Moher looking west toward the setting sun, individual drops of ocean water impossible to detect, waves barely visible. In my thoughts I am riding in the space shuttle looking down at the globe spinning beneath me, political borders impossible to detect. Our planet is not perfectly round and it wobbles sideways on its axis - because of that, we live. We are here because the universe is imperfect. Understand that and you'll understand your perfect place in the universe. Contradictory? No, just a matter of semantics. The truth, as they say, is outside these words which are an imperfect set of symbols describing what we're doing in the moment.
To know what's going on you have to get away from these words. Whether you figure out what's going on with people around you or away from other people depends on who you are. I know people in both thought patterns. Some find themselves, who they are, in groups. Some find themselves in quiet places alone. Some of you already know which one you are. Some of you will have to spend a long time experimenting to find out. Either way, accept the moment and what's going on with you at the time. The discovery's in the journey just as much as in the destination, if not more so.
How much does an ocean wave "enjoy" its travels before it hits the shore? It is. It does not know how else to be so there is nothing to enjoy in its being what it is. We are the same, are we not? Don't think about being you. Just be. Then you'll see. You are, not alone.
We call one revolution around the Sun 365 days because of the planet's axis spin. Have you ever set a gyroscope in motion and counted its number of revolutions around the axis? How many revolutions does the gyroscope take before it perceptibly slows down and then topples over?
The finite.
Counting votes. Counting vessels. Charting maps. Mapping family histories.
Tonight, I float, tethered to the planet but not strongly connected to any one feeling or issue associated with my species. I call this condition "freedom" despite my brain and upper body coordinating to stay within one set of grammar rules to document this moment on an electronic typewriter.
I believe with all my heart and soul that this is my planet, here for my nourishment and entertainment. I have no place else to go. So, while I sit here and think about my interactions in moments yet to be, I ask myself how I want to be nourished and entertained.
Does a population fully connected and productive in the global economy add or subtract to my image of the perfect world for me? Are war and poverty chronic conditions of our species? If we are like drops of water in the ocean of us, are we leftover waves from unseen pebbles dropped in another section of us, so complicated in our wave pattern interaction that we can never truly reset the whole globe into one set of beliefs or mutually beneficial actions?
What am I missing in my complete understanding of the myriad motivations of our species that make naysayers and doomsday predictors so popular? Do we simply bury and forget the innate sight of our ending, extending death of self to catastrophic proportions for our family, group, culture and/or species? I know I have asked these questions already. I know I have answered them. I know I am like my species and mercifully forget what I already know so that I don't know how much I repeat myself.
Time to get past this repetitious philosophy again and bring humour back out, a cycle I thankfully repeat when my philosophy starts looking down into the abyss, the bottomless pit of impossibly probable answers to questions I know better than to ask myself.
The Book of the Future sits here beside me, opened to the next chapter. I know where we're headed. I know the happiness and joy we'll find. I know the things we'll repeat that I didn't bother to keep up with the last time we repeated them. Why look at the future with dread? Why the dire predictions? We know we're going to repeat ourselves. Why not look at the fun and meaningful insight we'll gain?
We are not alone. We are our own aliens. We are our own angels and devils and gods and goddesses. We have this grand universe here before us and we let this wonderful gift to ourselves go to waste by arguing over who gets the last peanut or grain of rice when there's a field to be planted. We talk about how other people let us down as if we expected something different to happen with the next person we elevated to the status of perfection. Everything in front of us is fantastically imperfect, the flaws and dents and scratches there for us to thoroughly enjoy.
I float here in the moment, my back ache and overweight belly telling me I'm here in a particular place in time. I call this moment ecstasy, an epiphany of grandeur that I would not trade for the riches of the world. I celebrate my imperfection and say the world is mine because I am yours. My eyesight worsens, my memory leaks, my skin wrinkles and my fascination grows closer to infinity.
I am thankful for all of you, wherever you live, whatever you do, whomever you call your image of perfection. We are all imperfect and by our imperfections we depend on one another for creating this moment that will lead us to the next stupendous moment that will open us up to opportunities we couldn't have had the moment before.
In my thoughts I am standing on the edge of the Cliffs of Moher looking west toward the setting sun, individual drops of ocean water impossible to detect, waves barely visible. In my thoughts I am riding in the space shuttle looking down at the globe spinning beneath me, political borders impossible to detect. Our planet is not perfectly round and it wobbles sideways on its axis - because of that, we live. We are here because the universe is imperfect. Understand that and you'll understand your perfect place in the universe. Contradictory? No, just a matter of semantics. The truth, as they say, is outside these words which are an imperfect set of symbols describing what we're doing in the moment.
To know what's going on you have to get away from these words. Whether you figure out what's going on with people around you or away from other people depends on who you are. I know people in both thought patterns. Some find themselves, who they are, in groups. Some find themselves in quiet places alone. Some of you already know which one you are. Some of you will have to spend a long time experimenting to find out. Either way, accept the moment and what's going on with you at the time. The discovery's in the journey just as much as in the destination, if not more so.
How much does an ocean wave "enjoy" its travels before it hits the shore? It is. It does not know how else to be so there is nothing to enjoy in its being what it is. We are the same, are we not? Don't think about being you. Just be. Then you'll see. You are, not alone.
Anthropomorphosis
A friend of mine told me about a person who put his eccentric showmanship to commercial use and wrote the book, "The Cuckoo's Egg: Tracking a Spy Through the Maze of Computer Espionage," a tale of modern technology at work (author's name: Clifford Stoll). The writer also carried his fame into public presentations, accentuating his seemingly exceptionally bizarre behaviour, even in front of so-called stern, straight-laced, top military brass.
Evangelising is not just a quasi-religious style of living. We look up to modern icons because of their ability to evangelise themselves through their strong personalities and/or the strong personalities of those around them (such as family, friends, colleagues, agents, producers, fans and foes alike). As you know, history is really just the retelling of instant fame and fortune in the moment. Doesn't matter if you were famous or infamous, notorious or inglorious, as long as you got noticed.
Some people get fame. Some people get fortunes. Some people get both when they only sought one. Most of us get neither.
Because we are who we are - people, members of one species - we communicate no other way but person-to-person. Can you see that we anthropomorphise everything, then?
I live in the realm of our species. I do not expect to wake up and quack like a duck one day, seeking grass to eat and a pond to paddle across while keeping my eyes out for land and water predators. My innate duty is self-preservation and then preservation of our species. By default, my life is focused on the life of us.
Do we all see that? I don't know. Some people focus on themselves to the exclusion of the rest of the living things on this planet. Some people see us as just one more species on this planet that the universe can give or take.
How do we pay homage to ourselves as bipedal primates and see ourselves as equal to all parts of the universe at the same time? How do I pay attention to my bodily needs, my social desires, the needs/desires of people around me, the needs/desires of people I can't or will never see, the needs/desires of other living things on this planet and the existence of other parts of the universe that don't qualify as living systems?
In other words, I don't seek fame or fortune. I expect to find sufficient food, clothing, shelter and adventures to fill my bodily needs and brain's social desires. In that old, classic psychology description, I have fulfilled my self. In the same vein, I have seen wonders of the universe beyond normal comprehension and thus consider myself self-actualised. I exist on the superficial level of social/civil life and find other levels just as easy to place my existence, if I want to believe they exist (e.g., a swirling set of atoms/molecules like a tornado/hurricane/typhoon that spins up and dies off, unnamed by the universe except by our anthropomorphic habits). I do not understand everything I see but I have reached a state in my life where I trust others who say they do understand what I do not. I have seen the universe for what it is and can let go of my having to have a historical place in it.
I live in the moment. I live in the moment with you. You have needs/desires different than mine. Because my needs/desires are met, I can pick and choose your needs/desires I want to help you meet or achieve.
Thus, I walk the path that others have walked before me. My behaviour may or may not be unique in the moment between us, but ultimately any one of my behaviours is repetitive, either by me or someone before, during or after me. I have reached the state of my life where I want to help others regardless of personal gain in the form of fame or fortune.
A few friends of mine have asked me to help them find a way to be more financially successful than they are right now. I see a path of success for them and their needs/desires. I also see the path is wide enough for others to join. The path contributes to what I see as an idea that integrates preservation of me, my species and the living/nonliving things around us. As one of my friends said, he does not want to wrap his hands around the whole world because such a person stretches too thin and can be easily crushed. Instead, find a small crack and, like a fungus, squeeze in the space and fill it. Blend in with the environment instead of trying to smother it. Grow with the space instead of trying to overwhelm it. You may not seek fame and fortune in the process. If, however, the process is successful for everyone and everything around you, fame and fortune may follow. There's nothing wrong with that. In that case, people will accept your eccentricities and perceived personality quirks - they may even reward you for them!
Never put yourself down for who you are. Congratulate yourself for being the only person in the world who is exactly, accurately, precisely like you all the time. You don't have to be famous or wealthy to be you. Fill your needs and desires - if they match the needs and desires of others, fame and fortune will find you. Take care of you and you take care of your species. Take care of your species and your species will take care of you. Try it and see. I might be right!
My blog may be interesting or boring, correct or wrong, but my blog is me. I believe in who I am and have gotten all the success I've ever wanted. Time to share my success with you. Some day I'll get you circling the Moon on a cruise ship. We get closer to our launch date moment by moment. There goes another moment. Have you booked your ticket yet? Won't be long now!
Evangelising is not just a quasi-religious style of living. We look up to modern icons because of their ability to evangelise themselves through their strong personalities and/or the strong personalities of those around them (such as family, friends, colleagues, agents, producers, fans and foes alike). As you know, history is really just the retelling of instant fame and fortune in the moment. Doesn't matter if you were famous or infamous, notorious or inglorious, as long as you got noticed.
Some people get fame. Some people get fortunes. Some people get both when they only sought one. Most of us get neither.
Because we are who we are - people, members of one species - we communicate no other way but person-to-person. Can you see that we anthropomorphise everything, then?
I live in the realm of our species. I do not expect to wake up and quack like a duck one day, seeking grass to eat and a pond to paddle across while keeping my eyes out for land and water predators. My innate duty is self-preservation and then preservation of our species. By default, my life is focused on the life of us.
Do we all see that? I don't know. Some people focus on themselves to the exclusion of the rest of the living things on this planet. Some people see us as just one more species on this planet that the universe can give or take.
How do we pay homage to ourselves as bipedal primates and see ourselves as equal to all parts of the universe at the same time? How do I pay attention to my bodily needs, my social desires, the needs/desires of people around me, the needs/desires of people I can't or will never see, the needs/desires of other living things on this planet and the existence of other parts of the universe that don't qualify as living systems?
In other words, I don't seek fame or fortune. I expect to find sufficient food, clothing, shelter and adventures to fill my bodily needs and brain's social desires. In that old, classic psychology description, I have fulfilled my self. In the same vein, I have seen wonders of the universe beyond normal comprehension and thus consider myself self-actualised. I exist on the superficial level of social/civil life and find other levels just as easy to place my existence, if I want to believe they exist (e.g., a swirling set of atoms/molecules like a tornado/hurricane/typhoon that spins up and dies off, unnamed by the universe except by our anthropomorphic habits). I do not understand everything I see but I have reached a state in my life where I trust others who say they do understand what I do not. I have seen the universe for what it is and can let go of my having to have a historical place in it.
I live in the moment. I live in the moment with you. You have needs/desires different than mine. Because my needs/desires are met, I can pick and choose your needs/desires I want to help you meet or achieve.
Thus, I walk the path that others have walked before me. My behaviour may or may not be unique in the moment between us, but ultimately any one of my behaviours is repetitive, either by me or someone before, during or after me. I have reached the state of my life where I want to help others regardless of personal gain in the form of fame or fortune.
A few friends of mine have asked me to help them find a way to be more financially successful than they are right now. I see a path of success for them and their needs/desires. I also see the path is wide enough for others to join. The path contributes to what I see as an idea that integrates preservation of me, my species and the living/nonliving things around us. As one of my friends said, he does not want to wrap his hands around the whole world because such a person stretches too thin and can be easily crushed. Instead, find a small crack and, like a fungus, squeeze in the space and fill it. Blend in with the environment instead of trying to smother it. Grow with the space instead of trying to overwhelm it. You may not seek fame and fortune in the process. If, however, the process is successful for everyone and everything around you, fame and fortune may follow. There's nothing wrong with that. In that case, people will accept your eccentricities and perceived personality quirks - they may even reward you for them!
Never put yourself down for who you are. Congratulate yourself for being the only person in the world who is exactly, accurately, precisely like you all the time. You don't have to be famous or wealthy to be you. Fill your needs and desires - if they match the needs and desires of others, fame and fortune will find you. Take care of you and you take care of your species. Take care of your species and your species will take care of you. Try it and see. I might be right!
My blog may be interesting or boring, correct or wrong, but my blog is me. I believe in who I am and have gotten all the success I've ever wanted. Time to share my success with you. Some day I'll get you circling the Moon on a cruise ship. We get closer to our launch date moment by moment. There goes another moment. Have you booked your ticket yet? Won't be long now!
18 November 2009
Quick Cel
Some recent movies I watched and from which I gained interesting social commentaries:
= = =
Re-reading my last few blog entries and recalling my difficulty getting a full night's sleep the last few nights tell me I'm more interesting to myself in my writing when I've had long stretches of/for REM brain activity. Otherwise, I make frequent typos and language rule errors unintentionally. Which is more important - live for the moment in observation mode and write about it later on, OR live for the moment with full gusto and only have time to take a breather before living the next moment, letting someone else worry about writing down what happens to just another member of my species on another given day? I've spent a lot of time in the former. Time to experience the latter for a while, eh, Rick?
- Mon oncle d'Amérique (starring Gérard Depardieu)
- On The Beach (starring Gregory Peck)
- The Castle (starring Michael Caton)
- Siu nin Wong Fei Hung ji: Tit Ma Lau, a/k/a Iron Monkey (starring Rongguang Yu)
= = =
Re-reading my last few blog entries and recalling my difficulty getting a full night's sleep the last few nights tell me I'm more interesting to myself in my writing when I've had long stretches of/for REM brain activity. Otherwise, I make frequent typos and language rule errors unintentionally. Which is more important - live for the moment in observation mode and write about it later on, OR live for the moment with full gusto and only have time to take a breather before living the next moment, letting someone else worry about writing down what happens to just another member of my species on another given day? I've spent a lot of time in the former. Time to experience the latter for a while, eh, Rick?
Druscilla Penny
How do you describe worker productivity? Do you look at earnings? Profits? Tasks? Projects?
Do you say, "Well, I know my employees have spare time that they use for social networking, either intraoffice (gatherings at the water cooler, hallway, bathroom, carpark, etc.) or via electronic devices. Since I pay for that time, I'm going to reduce my technology repair/update overhead and get my employees to become part-time technology experts."
Do you prevent or minimize the number of meetings that take place in which only one or two employees actively participate and make decisions while the other 90% could be effective somewhere else?
Do you increase the so-called multitasking that employees perform, knowing that some types of multitasking are actually counterproductive?
Do you require employees to take training classes during offhours, such as before/after work hours, or during work breaks such as lunch?
Do you push decisionmaking down the hierarchical chart, empowering employees to be more effective?
Do you cross-train employees so they can learn to do 1.25 and then 1.5 jobs at once, increasing productivity while monitoring their health, making sure you have exercise and counseling available to maximize employee use, without detrimentally affecting their usefulness or decreasing your profitability with too many health monitoring services?
Do you see yourself as having the privilege of your employees working for you, or do you think your employees see their jobs as their right to be employed and you're the lucky dog who gets to deal with them?
Knowing you take attrition into account as part of the cost of retraining, and ultimately a drag on worker productivity, how do you measure worker satisfaction? Do you take preventative measures or do you react to worker negativity? Do you encourage creativity or do you beat your employees until morale improves?
Do you own your own company or does your company own you? Do you think you are your own company, standing on your two feet, or do you think you carry a bunch of people on your shoulders?
Do you look at a statistic like worker productivity and automatically think of a spreadsheet containing numbers and formulas you can manipulate with time? Or do you see individual faces and capabilities which indicate limits you can stretch with training or have to work around?
Do you think in macroeconomic terms or do you worry about the next sale or project deadline?
Are you a puppet master pulling the strings or a ventriloquist with your hand inside a dummy's head?
Is ignorance bliss or dread to you? Or a challenge for your next round of personal continuous education/training?
If you knew the truth behind worker productivity, would you believe it, or do you see worker productivity as a completely imaginary number with no meaning whatsoever?
Our social structures blanket us with terms and definitions. Which ones do you ignore? Which ones can you not ignore? Do you seek out more peaks and valleys of the unknown terrain of new social structures, or are you so overwhelmed with what you've got to take care of that you're trying to filter out and reduce the amount of information you're already receiving? Does the phrase "worker productivity" cover either one of those situations for you? Should it? What about a tribe deep in the Amazon rainforest or a self-sufficient family hidden in the Appalachian mountains?
May we define "person productivity" to account for all conditions of our species' members? If so, then employment is not a defining factor for our usefulness as persons. Think about it...
Do you say, "Well, I know my employees have spare time that they use for social networking, either intraoffice (gatherings at the water cooler, hallway, bathroom, carpark, etc.) or via electronic devices. Since I pay for that time, I'm going to reduce my technology repair/update overhead and get my employees to become part-time technology experts."
Do you prevent or minimize the number of meetings that take place in which only one or two employees actively participate and make decisions while the other 90% could be effective somewhere else?
Do you increase the so-called multitasking that employees perform, knowing that some types of multitasking are actually counterproductive?
Do you require employees to take training classes during offhours, such as before/after work hours, or during work breaks such as lunch?
Do you push decisionmaking down the hierarchical chart, empowering employees to be more effective?
Do you cross-train employees so they can learn to do 1.25 and then 1.5 jobs at once, increasing productivity while monitoring their health, making sure you have exercise and counseling available to maximize employee use, without detrimentally affecting their usefulness or decreasing your profitability with too many health monitoring services?
Do you see yourself as having the privilege of your employees working for you, or do you think your employees see their jobs as their right to be employed and you're the lucky dog who gets to deal with them?
Knowing you take attrition into account as part of the cost of retraining, and ultimately a drag on worker productivity, how do you measure worker satisfaction? Do you take preventative measures or do you react to worker negativity? Do you encourage creativity or do you beat your employees until morale improves?
Do you own your own company or does your company own you? Do you think you are your own company, standing on your two feet, or do you think you carry a bunch of people on your shoulders?
Do you look at a statistic like worker productivity and automatically think of a spreadsheet containing numbers and formulas you can manipulate with time? Or do you see individual faces and capabilities which indicate limits you can stretch with training or have to work around?
Do you think in macroeconomic terms or do you worry about the next sale or project deadline?
Are you a puppet master pulling the strings or a ventriloquist with your hand inside a dummy's head?
Is ignorance bliss or dread to you? Or a challenge for your next round of personal continuous education/training?
If you knew the truth behind worker productivity, would you believe it, or do you see worker productivity as a completely imaginary number with no meaning whatsoever?
Our social structures blanket us with terms and definitions. Which ones do you ignore? Which ones can you not ignore? Do you seek out more peaks and valleys of the unknown terrain of new social structures, or are you so overwhelmed with what you've got to take care of that you're trying to filter out and reduce the amount of information you're already receiving? Does the phrase "worker productivity" cover either one of those situations for you? Should it? What about a tribe deep in the Amazon rainforest or a self-sufficient family hidden in the Appalachian mountains?
May we define "person productivity" to account for all conditions of our species' members? If so, then employment is not a defining factor for our usefulness as persons. Think about it...
17 November 2009
Celtic Crossing
Have you ever hunted orchids in Borneo or kayaked through bioluminescent water in Puerto Rico? Have you ever attended Protestant services in Ireland? How about all three? Throw in skydiving over Antarctica and you've got some stories to tell, I'm sure.
Tonight, upon the invitation of my Alabama-bred nephew, my wife and I attended an evening service associated with the 187th annual meeting of the Alabama Baptist State Convention at Whitesburg Baptist Church in Huntsville.
At the service, we watched the singing performance of the secondary school church choir and a Irish-born couple called The Gettys (of course, their being Protestant, you can guess they grew up near Belfast, not Dublin) and their Irish-style band.
Through the years, my wife and I have sat at the church and watched our niece and nephew in various church-related activities (my wife and I are not members of the church but her deceased brother was and his family still are). The church's main seating area, the sanctuary, can accommodate several thousand people. Like many large sanctuaries, the church includes projection screens, videographers, professional sound system, orchestra pit area and other refinements tuned to the needs and desires of today's religious audiences/congregations.
Many years ago, in the same venue we saw a concert by a group centered on the singing performance and celebrity of Lisa Whelchel, a child star from the TV show, "The Facts of Life." We've seen several versions of the church's annual summertime show based on patriotic themes.
In other words, we're used to seeing the room as much for its role as a concert hall as a place for religious worship.
I've mentioned being in a small singing group called Sing Out Kingsport when I was a secondary school student, haven't I? You know, the one based on the international traveling singing group(s) called Up With People. Well, tonight I watched a 30-year slide in time, as if Up With People still existed but had hidden itself in the student body of a local church. The same upbeat music, the same rock band ensemble, everything including the sensitive choir director who had to compete with the kids watching themselves on the big screen instead of watching his hand movement for tempo and volume control.
What is the purpose of religion? You tell me your version - I'll seek first to understand, then try to be understood. Okay, I'm listening...I'm listening...oh well, sorry, you're taking too long. I'll listen to the rest of what you have to say later on. Anyway, religion, as my wife and I constantly discuss, is a way to develop a moral compass for people so they can agree with the social direction their subculture is headed and can turn nearby, interested people around who are headed in a different direction.
The youth singing group tonight sang songs and performed a skit to demonstrate their well-developed moral compass. I'm sure many, if not most of them, will carry on the traditions of their parents and their peers in this subculture. In fact, I'm more than sure. I know they will. All cultures train their members to comfortably conform to and comply with cultural standards, including religious practice. Barring major disasters or wars, cultural offspring carry on the habits of their ancestors. Well, then there's that other annoying inconvenience for cultures wanting to perpetuate themselves - the competing subcultures around the offspring.
I believe all cultures that promote positive reinforcement of our species are equal. I'm just as willing to review events tied to this Southern Baptist tradition as I am to sit and watch Inuits or Hindus or football worshipers (a late happy birthday nod to Nehru, by the way). By discussing them here, I realize there's the chance that those I discuss appear to get a level of higher importance than the ones I haven't discussed yet. I cannot control your impression but if you hang out here long enough, you'll catch me covering an ultrawideband variety of events about people interested in preserving our species for future generations.
After the youth choir finished, the main stars, Keith and Kristyn Getty and their backup band, performed.
Some of you may be familiar with a phenomenon known as Celtic Woman, an ensemble of five Irish women singing soft lullabies and other tunes you could imagine the "greatest singer in all the world" (at least so I'm told), Celine Dion, belt out on stage. Well, Kristyn and her crew are to the Christian music entertainment scene what Celtic Woman is to PBS/NPR fundraisers - a sure moneymaker and a fun evening of singing, handclapping and general joy.
I'll be honest with you here, whatever that means (probably that I want to throw in a side comment that contradicts what I know to be a generally well-liked something or other). I'm not a big church kind of guy. In fact, I don't attend many events tied to large numbers of people (except for American football, as many of you know) - not musical ones, anyway. I like intimate musical settings where you can see and hear and smell musicians passionate about their performance. I don't want to have to squint to see the performers' faces or join in singing a single melodic line for lyrics projected on a wall.
Thus, I find myself fighting against my cynical self to stay focused on the positive elements of tonight's performance, which was designed for people who like to gather in large groups and celebrate life. After all, they are what my goal for our species is all about, choosing lifestyles that may run counter to mine but point our species to one of many safe, reliable methods to ensure our future survival.
In this country, we have what we call retirement centers, nursing homes, assisted living facilities and other euphemisms for places where people who cannot or do not want to live independently are housed together. In these locations, you find people from all walks of life. They may be mentally challenged from birth. They may have been well-known CEOs, military veterans, housewives, or religious leaders. However, they all share the same life, with community activities geared to keep them as mentally and physically active as possible.
When I was in Sing Out Kingsport, we sang at these senior citizen housing units. We also sang at small churches, including pentecostal churches where no one was allowed to leave until everyone had stepped forward, confessed sins and declared an eternal love for Jesus. We performed at shopping malls. We stood on top of a flatbed trailer and sang in holiday parades passing through downtown urban centers.
They say that youth is wasted on the young. I disagree. After having been both a young singer in a youth group and an audience member watching young people sing their hearts out tonight, I believe that youth is what you make of it. You can spend your youth practicing sports skills, developing scientific knowledge sets, caring for the sick and the elderly, and putting your public singing/acting abilities to social use. You can also spend your youth playing video games and texting - socialising with your peers, in other words.
It's true what they say - you're only young once. You can be young at heart your whole life.
Tonight, I wanted to write a review of the Gettys. They were both entertaining and emotionally moving (after the show, we ended up buying and had them autograph three CDs of theirs) but in my thoughts they were overshadowed this evening by the youth choir I watched and heard.
I've focused my belief in moving our species forward mainly on the adults of this world. However, I've missed a large part of how a species' goal is accomplished - the future of our species belongs to the young.
I'm already middle-aged. My generation is running this country and flying from this country into space. We are the flag bearers carrying the standards of our youth. We are also the inspiration for tomorrow's leaders.
The 1960s and 1970s produced the folk rock music that created Up With People and groups like Sing Out Kingsport. Today, many religious groups are using that folk rock music style to attract young people to develop their moral compasses. What will the music and thought set of today's multimedia leaders generate 30, 40 or 50 years from now? I don't know but I sure would like to find out. I'd like to see the great accomplishments of the smiling faces of today's youth when they're middle-aged and leading their generation's political, industrial and multimedia machines of tomorrow. Some, like the ones tonight, will get there by following the moral compass of their ancestors. Some, like my wife and me, will get there by creating their own automatic robotic drum machine to develop a unique beat of their own. We can have a lot of fun along the way.
The fun's in the adventure of getting there. The adventure's in you.
Tonight, upon the invitation of my Alabama-bred nephew, my wife and I attended an evening service associated with the 187th annual meeting of the Alabama Baptist State Convention at Whitesburg Baptist Church in Huntsville.
At the service, we watched the singing performance of the secondary school church choir and a Irish-born couple called The Gettys (of course, their being Protestant, you can guess they grew up near Belfast, not Dublin) and their Irish-style band.
Through the years, my wife and I have sat at the church and watched our niece and nephew in various church-related activities (my wife and I are not members of the church but her deceased brother was and his family still are). The church's main seating area, the sanctuary, can accommodate several thousand people. Like many large sanctuaries, the church includes projection screens, videographers, professional sound system, orchestra pit area and other refinements tuned to the needs and desires of today's religious audiences/congregations.
Many years ago, in the same venue we saw a concert by a group centered on the singing performance and celebrity of Lisa Whelchel, a child star from the TV show, "The Facts of Life." We've seen several versions of the church's annual summertime show based on patriotic themes.
In other words, we're used to seeing the room as much for its role as a concert hall as a place for religious worship.
I've mentioned being in a small singing group called Sing Out Kingsport when I was a secondary school student, haven't I? You know, the one based on the international traveling singing group(s) called Up With People. Well, tonight I watched a 30-year slide in time, as if Up With People still existed but had hidden itself in the student body of a local church. The same upbeat music, the same rock band ensemble, everything including the sensitive choir director who had to compete with the kids watching themselves on the big screen instead of watching his hand movement for tempo and volume control.
What is the purpose of religion? You tell me your version - I'll seek first to understand, then try to be understood. Okay, I'm listening...I'm listening...oh well, sorry, you're taking too long. I'll listen to the rest of what you have to say later on. Anyway, religion, as my wife and I constantly discuss, is a way to develop a moral compass for people so they can agree with the social direction their subculture is headed and can turn nearby, interested people around who are headed in a different direction.
The youth singing group tonight sang songs and performed a skit to demonstrate their well-developed moral compass. I'm sure many, if not most of them, will carry on the traditions of their parents and their peers in this subculture. In fact, I'm more than sure. I know they will. All cultures train their members to comfortably conform to and comply with cultural standards, including religious practice. Barring major disasters or wars, cultural offspring carry on the habits of their ancestors. Well, then there's that other annoying inconvenience for cultures wanting to perpetuate themselves - the competing subcultures around the offspring.
I believe all cultures that promote positive reinforcement of our species are equal. I'm just as willing to review events tied to this Southern Baptist tradition as I am to sit and watch Inuits or Hindus or football worshipers (a late happy birthday nod to Nehru, by the way). By discussing them here, I realize there's the chance that those I discuss appear to get a level of higher importance than the ones I haven't discussed yet. I cannot control your impression but if you hang out here long enough, you'll catch me covering an ultrawideband variety of events about people interested in preserving our species for future generations.
After the youth choir finished, the main stars, Keith and Kristyn Getty and their backup band, performed.
Some of you may be familiar with a phenomenon known as Celtic Woman, an ensemble of five Irish women singing soft lullabies and other tunes you could imagine the "greatest singer in all the world" (at least so I'm told), Celine Dion, belt out on stage. Well, Kristyn and her crew are to the Christian music entertainment scene what Celtic Woman is to PBS/NPR fundraisers - a sure moneymaker and a fun evening of singing, handclapping and general joy.
I'll be honest with you here, whatever that means (probably that I want to throw in a side comment that contradicts what I know to be a generally well-liked something or other). I'm not a big church kind of guy. In fact, I don't attend many events tied to large numbers of people (except for American football, as many of you know) - not musical ones, anyway. I like intimate musical settings where you can see and hear and smell musicians passionate about their performance. I don't want to have to squint to see the performers' faces or join in singing a single melodic line for lyrics projected on a wall.
Thus, I find myself fighting against my cynical self to stay focused on the positive elements of tonight's performance, which was designed for people who like to gather in large groups and celebrate life. After all, they are what my goal for our species is all about, choosing lifestyles that may run counter to mine but point our species to one of many safe, reliable methods to ensure our future survival.
In this country, we have what we call retirement centers, nursing homes, assisted living facilities and other euphemisms for places where people who cannot or do not want to live independently are housed together. In these locations, you find people from all walks of life. They may be mentally challenged from birth. They may have been well-known CEOs, military veterans, housewives, or religious leaders. However, they all share the same life, with community activities geared to keep them as mentally and physically active as possible.
When I was in Sing Out Kingsport, we sang at these senior citizen housing units. We also sang at small churches, including pentecostal churches where no one was allowed to leave until everyone had stepped forward, confessed sins and declared an eternal love for Jesus. We performed at shopping malls. We stood on top of a flatbed trailer and sang in holiday parades passing through downtown urban centers.
They say that youth is wasted on the young. I disagree. After having been both a young singer in a youth group and an audience member watching young people sing their hearts out tonight, I believe that youth is what you make of it. You can spend your youth practicing sports skills, developing scientific knowledge sets, caring for the sick and the elderly, and putting your public singing/acting abilities to social use. You can also spend your youth playing video games and texting - socialising with your peers, in other words.
It's true what they say - you're only young once. You can be young at heart your whole life.
Tonight, I wanted to write a review of the Gettys. They were both entertaining and emotionally moving (after the show, we ended up buying and had them autograph three CDs of theirs) but in my thoughts they were overshadowed this evening by the youth choir I watched and heard.
I've focused my belief in moving our species forward mainly on the adults of this world. However, I've missed a large part of how a species' goal is accomplished - the future of our species belongs to the young.
I'm already middle-aged. My generation is running this country and flying from this country into space. We are the flag bearers carrying the standards of our youth. We are also the inspiration for tomorrow's leaders.
The 1960s and 1970s produced the folk rock music that created Up With People and groups like Sing Out Kingsport. Today, many religious groups are using that folk rock music style to attract young people to develop their moral compasses. What will the music and thought set of today's multimedia leaders generate 30, 40 or 50 years from now? I don't know but I sure would like to find out. I'd like to see the great accomplishments of the smiling faces of today's youth when they're middle-aged and leading their generation's political, industrial and multimedia machines of tomorrow. Some, like the ones tonight, will get there by following the moral compass of their ancestors. Some, like my wife and me, will get there by creating their own automatic robotic drum machine to develop a unique beat of their own. We can have a lot of fun along the way.
The fun's in the adventure of getting there. The adventure's in you.
Living In Style
Do you know how many people are murdered every day? I don't. I see a few animals/insects eat other animals/insects most everyday, though.
Do you hold an opinion, weak or strong, about the phrase "global warming"? I don't. I see local and global phenomena related to temperature differentials, though.
Right now, a migrating flock of birds flies back and forth from the same tree. Smaller groups of them fly away and fly back. Finally, they all disappear from my view.
I'm told that swans and Canada geese mate for life, indicating monogamy is a good survival trait for species, I suppose.
What or who is a writer? Some storytellers are writers. Some writers are financially compensated for their writing. All of us write the stories of our lives, with no time or ability to edit and rewrite the past the way we lived it (although most will remember the past in a selective manner but memories are not the stories of our lives).
Today, I think out loud on electronic paper, repeating the words and thoughts of billions. Reflecting but not a reflection. Inflection. Detection. Sounding out my thoughts in the banged-together thought process called the English language, an amalgam of mangled symbols from many cultures, past and present.
So let's say that the average age of a member of our species before dying continues to go up and our average age of conception ability goes down but our average age of last conception stays about the same. At the same time, the cultural training of our species goes up, requiring longer and longer (and/or more intense) sessions in formal situations to ensure we educate our species' children to function anywhere in our global economy. Thus, our children can have children at a younger age, all of whom will live longer, but to succeed anywhere in our ecumenopolis they must spend longer time in education. Does that mean anything? I don't know. Foods full of stimulants and leftover growth products in animals/vegetables, delayed entry into the workforce, and pills for longevity, I suppose.
Do you think you have a purpose for living? If so, then you must know that the world is full of people with other purposes for living besides yours. No matter what we call a purpose, we live. We breathe, eat and exist with others. Rich, poor, leisure, labour, pain, pleasure, happy, sad.
I'm not going anywhere with this. I'm thinking through a line of reasoning in my thoughts to see where our species should be headed next. I don't exist outside of this time I'm in, so I can only imagine what our species will be doing a hundred or a thousand years from now, or more importantly, a thousand generations from now. What we do today sets us one step closer to the next generation's perceived destiny/purpose. Do we want future generations to have the same purpose for living as ours? I don't know.
What I do know is that the general condition of a member of our species will be about the same - born, live, die. How any one member will live in style, I do not know. Despite what I don't know, my existence and what I do while I live here in this time determines what will happen to or what will be available for future generations. People in the future will study our behaviour as if we knew what we were doing and what we were doing to ensure the success of future generations.
I live in the moment. That's all I have. One moment followed by the next one, ad infinitum (my set of moments are limited, I know, but moments as a concept are infinite). I have already experienced the transition of knowledge between trained to believe I'm uniquely special to discovering I'm unique just like everybody else. I have survived to this point in my life without being murdered and eaten or adversely affected by concepts like global warming, able to write about my experiences of living in the moment. I am the result of generations past and the influence, known and unknown, on generations in the future.
I have one life to live here as a member of our species. I see myself as a person in the moment who deals with those around me and our give-and-take, back-and-forth flow of personality influences. I also see myself as a general member of our species, representing us as if I'm at the front of the group of all of us heading blind into the future. In both cases, life in the moment is an experience and an experiment on seven billion different current reasons to live (albeit generally categorisable).
We exist. Our existence gives us the right to whine and complain and celebrate about, with fight for or flight from, others' influence on our right to believe in our purpose for living. We can say what we want in a public forum as long as we realize our influence on others and are willing to face the consequences of our free speech in the moment and on future generations. Certainly, we are free to be or say what we want, wherever and whenever we want, but woe to those who exercise that freedom when others strongly disagree - no doubt, the consequences will make themselves clear in the next moment - the balance of nature exhibited in the behaviour of our species in action, not just words.
I live freely but I also live at the mercy of those around me. We live together in this moment, not a previous or future moment. We can push our purpose for living on others. We can announce our purpose for living and others will follow along or fight against our purpose. We can live quiet, unassuming lives that barely get the attention of others around us, purpose or no purpose standing out. In all these cases (and more!) we determine the set of conditions for ourselves and others in future moments. This moment affects the next moment, ad infinitum (hopefully, not ad nauseum!).
Have I discovered anything new in this blog entry? I don't know. I feel like there's something just out of sight, like sensing the flock of birds somewhere else in the environment right now. I live in the moment. I have the Book of the Future. We live in an ecumenopolis. We're prepared to move our species onto other planetary bodies. We are on the verge of seeing the universe in a whole new light, just like every generation before us has seen the universe in a whole new light, backwards in time ad infinitum.
My gut says I'm working with others to see education as a solution, not a problem; unemployment as a solution, not a problem; the separation of political entities as a problem, not a solution; mass starvation as a problem, not a solution; universal health care as both a problem and a solution. All while allowing seven billion different opinions on what life's all about.
Imagine you have the world in your hand. You know why the world's atmosphere changes and you know what the atmosphere will be like over the next 20,000 years, plus or minus a few variations along the timeline. You have all the information you need to categorise individual members of our species into interlinked groups, subgroups, cultures and subcultures. You know from birth a person's susceptibility to known diseases, propensity for social behaviour types and possible cultural importance. You want every person to provide positive reinforcement for the species so you foster their growth to meet their potential, regardless of what you think of any one individual's potential. You may know one person who will be a psychotic killer, another person an expert surgeon and another person who will wander from one place to another almost randomly despite strong potential for one characteristic or behaviour at birth. At all times, you maintain your goal of positive reinforcement toward long-term survival of your species, allowing flexibility in the changes to individuals as their timelines decrease because randomness is also part of your plan.
Of course, you don't have to imagine holding the world in your hand. You already do. When you can see yourself on one spot on this planet while also holding the whole planet, then you understand why you're important in the moment.
I hold the world in my hand. I see every one of you. I don't force my opinion down your throat. I find those who agree with my goal of getting our species extraterrestrial while allowing the rest of you to live the lives you want, directly or indirectly contributing to my goal which also includes the general care and maintenance of our species. Some of you will get in my way. I'll get in the way of some of you. When that happens, we'll see who has to move around whom or what in the next moment.
Well, what do you know? Here's the next moment. Talk to you again soon. Thanks for all the letters, gift, emails, text and other means of communication between us. Life is what it is. I wouldn't have it any other way in this moment.
Do you hold an opinion, weak or strong, about the phrase "global warming"? I don't. I see local and global phenomena related to temperature differentials, though.
Right now, a migrating flock of birds flies back and forth from the same tree. Smaller groups of them fly away and fly back. Finally, they all disappear from my view.
I'm told that swans and Canada geese mate for life, indicating monogamy is a good survival trait for species, I suppose.
What or who is a writer? Some storytellers are writers. Some writers are financially compensated for their writing. All of us write the stories of our lives, with no time or ability to edit and rewrite the past the way we lived it (although most will remember the past in a selective manner but memories are not the stories of our lives).
Today, I think out loud on electronic paper, repeating the words and thoughts of billions. Reflecting but not a reflection. Inflection. Detection. Sounding out my thoughts in the banged-together thought process called the English language, an amalgam of mangled symbols from many cultures, past and present.
So let's say that the average age of a member of our species before dying continues to go up and our average age of conception ability goes down but our average age of last conception stays about the same. At the same time, the cultural training of our species goes up, requiring longer and longer (and/or more intense) sessions in formal situations to ensure we educate our species' children to function anywhere in our global economy. Thus, our children can have children at a younger age, all of whom will live longer, but to succeed anywhere in our ecumenopolis they must spend longer time in education. Does that mean anything? I don't know. Foods full of stimulants and leftover growth products in animals/vegetables, delayed entry into the workforce, and pills for longevity, I suppose.
Do you think you have a purpose for living? If so, then you must know that the world is full of people with other purposes for living besides yours. No matter what we call a purpose, we live. We breathe, eat and exist with others. Rich, poor, leisure, labour, pain, pleasure, happy, sad.
I'm not going anywhere with this. I'm thinking through a line of reasoning in my thoughts to see where our species should be headed next. I don't exist outside of this time I'm in, so I can only imagine what our species will be doing a hundred or a thousand years from now, or more importantly, a thousand generations from now. What we do today sets us one step closer to the next generation's perceived destiny/purpose. Do we want future generations to have the same purpose for living as ours? I don't know.
What I do know is that the general condition of a member of our species will be about the same - born, live, die. How any one member will live in style, I do not know. Despite what I don't know, my existence and what I do while I live here in this time determines what will happen to or what will be available for future generations. People in the future will study our behaviour as if we knew what we were doing and what we were doing to ensure the success of future generations.
I live in the moment. That's all I have. One moment followed by the next one, ad infinitum (my set of moments are limited, I know, but moments as a concept are infinite). I have already experienced the transition of knowledge between trained to believe I'm uniquely special to discovering I'm unique just like everybody else. I have survived to this point in my life without being murdered and eaten or adversely affected by concepts like global warming, able to write about my experiences of living in the moment. I am the result of generations past and the influence, known and unknown, on generations in the future.
I have one life to live here as a member of our species. I see myself as a person in the moment who deals with those around me and our give-and-take, back-and-forth flow of personality influences. I also see myself as a general member of our species, representing us as if I'm at the front of the group of all of us heading blind into the future. In both cases, life in the moment is an experience and an experiment on seven billion different current reasons to live (albeit generally categorisable).
We exist. Our existence gives us the right to whine and complain and celebrate about, with fight for or flight from, others' influence on our right to believe in our purpose for living. We can say what we want in a public forum as long as we realize our influence on others and are willing to face the consequences of our free speech in the moment and on future generations. Certainly, we are free to be or say what we want, wherever and whenever we want, but woe to those who exercise that freedom when others strongly disagree - no doubt, the consequences will make themselves clear in the next moment - the balance of nature exhibited in the behaviour of our species in action, not just words.
I live freely but I also live at the mercy of those around me. We live together in this moment, not a previous or future moment. We can push our purpose for living on others. We can announce our purpose for living and others will follow along or fight against our purpose. We can live quiet, unassuming lives that barely get the attention of others around us, purpose or no purpose standing out. In all these cases (and more!) we determine the set of conditions for ourselves and others in future moments. This moment affects the next moment, ad infinitum (hopefully, not ad nauseum!).
Have I discovered anything new in this blog entry? I don't know. I feel like there's something just out of sight, like sensing the flock of birds somewhere else in the environment right now. I live in the moment. I have the Book of the Future. We live in an ecumenopolis. We're prepared to move our species onto other planetary bodies. We are on the verge of seeing the universe in a whole new light, just like every generation before us has seen the universe in a whole new light, backwards in time ad infinitum.
My gut says I'm working with others to see education as a solution, not a problem; unemployment as a solution, not a problem; the separation of political entities as a problem, not a solution; mass starvation as a problem, not a solution; universal health care as both a problem and a solution. All while allowing seven billion different opinions on what life's all about.
Imagine you have the world in your hand. You know why the world's atmosphere changes and you know what the atmosphere will be like over the next 20,000 years, plus or minus a few variations along the timeline. You have all the information you need to categorise individual members of our species into interlinked groups, subgroups, cultures and subcultures. You know from birth a person's susceptibility to known diseases, propensity for social behaviour types and possible cultural importance. You want every person to provide positive reinforcement for the species so you foster their growth to meet their potential, regardless of what you think of any one individual's potential. You may know one person who will be a psychotic killer, another person an expert surgeon and another person who will wander from one place to another almost randomly despite strong potential for one characteristic or behaviour at birth. At all times, you maintain your goal of positive reinforcement toward long-term survival of your species, allowing flexibility in the changes to individuals as their timelines decrease because randomness is also part of your plan.
Of course, you don't have to imagine holding the world in your hand. You already do. When you can see yourself on one spot on this planet while also holding the whole planet, then you understand why you're important in the moment.
I hold the world in my hand. I see every one of you. I don't force my opinion down your throat. I find those who agree with my goal of getting our species extraterrestrial while allowing the rest of you to live the lives you want, directly or indirectly contributing to my goal which also includes the general care and maintenance of our species. Some of you will get in my way. I'll get in the way of some of you. When that happens, we'll see who has to move around whom or what in the next moment.
Well, what do you know? Here's the next moment. Talk to you again soon. Thanks for all the letters, gift, emails, text and other means of communication between us. Life is what it is. I wouldn't have it any other way in this moment.
16 November 2009
Our Cabin In The Woods
Our humble cabin in the woods is available for view as part of photo documentation of the north Alabama winter storm of 1988:
http://www.srh.noaa.gov/hun/events/Jan1988snow/WINTERHS.JPG
http://www.srh.noaa.gov/hun/events/Jan1988snow/WINTERHS.JPG
Using Social Media Effectively
Guess it's time to dive into the deep end and see if social networking can perform extreme commercial makeover success:
http://mashable.com/2009/10/26/socia-media-entrepreneurs/
More as the frog flies...
http://mashable.com/2009/10/26/socia-media-entrepreneurs/
More as the frog flies...
Riverview Flat
In the summer of 1984, I enjoyed my freedom. I was in the last break before what should have been my senior year in university. I had changed college majors many times, most of them discussed here, I believe, and was ready to move out on my own. A friend of mine, Amy Easter, agreed to share a two-bedroom flat with me on the other side of the river from the campus of UTK.
Oftentimes, life imitates art because we like to appear in art form ironically.
The manager of the Riverview Flat Complex told me his name was Casey. Casey stood about 5'8", his shoulders wide and upper body muscular. We chatted a few times while I moved furniture into the flat.
Casey had worked as a bouncer, earning the nickname "Casey at the Bat" for his use of a stick of wood to smack disruly patrons out the front door. Before his bouncer job, he had been a gymnastics instructor but gave up that job because he was getting too old to throw and catch out-of-control athletic bodies that flung themselves at him.
I had saved up enough money to pay the first month's rent as well as half the deposit. Amy was supposed to come up with the other half but she had lost her job and wanted to negotiate with me to cover the cost of both moving in and possibly future full payments of rent until she found a job.
By 1984, I had decided I was a writer. I did not qualify my writing ability and did not judge myself against a perfect model although I had writing heroes I looked up to, including Orwell, Burroughs, Tolkien, Poe and Plath. Little did I know of James Agee or Cormac McCarthy.
I had sought publication in two literary magazines, one at ETSU and one at UTK, getting my first rejection slips. I read the editions that could have contained what I had written - the literary magazine poetry/prose selections were no better or worse than mine. I decided that I had been right to start my own underground publication at ETSU called Swashbuckler. With the little money I had, I managed to publish a few issues of the Swashbuckler, including submissions by anonymous donors who had sent work to my student mailbox posted in the publisher section.
In Knoxville, Rus Harper, an experimental/punk musician, ran his own underground rag and I had little desire or money to compete against him so I supported his work.
By my second month in the flat, I realized I could not afford to support Amy's and my lifestyles. She was not my girlfriend so there was no incentive of long-lasting love to keep us together. On top of that, an infestation of fleas in the flat had reached a level I never thought possible, considering I barely had money for food, let alone flea killer insecticide power to cancel the circus act of my jumping and flipping around to avoid the nearly invisible acrobats nibbling any of my body parts they could get a hold of.
Given the choice of either roaches or fleas, I'll take roaches. At least they have the decency to avoid you when they share a flat with you.
But wait, that's not all! My bank account was overdrawn, I had no credit cards to charge my rent on, my flatmate had decided I was no fun since I wouldn't pay her half of the rent and provide us food, and my job at Steak&Ale restaurant was getting way too serious for me.
I had taken a job at Steak&Ale because my hours at Taco Bell were insufficient to provide a living wage. There were so many available workers from around the UTK campus that the Taco Bell management on the Strip could keep our weekly hours low, getting a full staff whenever they wished, making those of us with unusual school hours get lousy paychecks in the process.
But I had decided to quit school for a while. I had spent several years drifting from one institute of higher learning to another, switching majors like underwear, and was building a student loan I thought I'd never repay (probably around $4k to $6k at the time).
My job at Steak&Ale was simple - wash dishes, bus tables and put garnish on dinner plates, with occasional forays into the salad bar area to refill rabbit food containers. I liked the simplicity of the job but the management team saw I was too well organized, turning the dishwashing assignment into an efficient minifactory of clean utensils and other items that'll fit into a square, shiny-metal steam box, anticipating which plates, knives, forks and cooking gear needed to be ready next. Hey, is there anything the matter with taking pride in doing your job, no matter what it may be? Of course not.
That is, unless you don't want to get the attention of management. Since I was no longer in school, the general manager thought he'd put my natural "work ethic" initiative to work by training me to be a bartender and bookkeeper for Steak&Ale. After all, he said, most of his employees were either current or former college students and none of them showed the drive to perfect their jobs like me.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not bragging about being a dishwasher, busboy or salad bar tender. I just don't like hearing people being upset or disappointed about my interaction with them. You know what I mean. I dislike rejection of any kind.
So I carried the bar recipe book with me and studied the restaurant's accounting books - daily receipts, food expenses, etc. I worked at the bar a little so I could get used to the atmosphere and expectations of the bar patrons. If you've ever tended bar, you know the organizational mindset it takes to pretend like you're just some fun-loving goofy person who knows how to mix a few drinks and entertain those who want to watch you put on a show for good tips.
Meanwhile, because I was training for a new job, my per-hour pay was reduced to a training salary, making it completely impossible for me to pay the next month's rent.
I drove back to the Riverview complex and was prepared to tell Casey I was going to miss the next month's payment but could make it up with increased pay I expected to get with my accounting and bartending jobs in the coming months.
Have I ever told you this story? Probably not. As I said and you know, life imitates art. That afternoon, I walked up the flight of stairs to my flat and saw Casey drag a guy out of the adjacent flat. He held the guy's arm like a twig and literally threw the guy down another flight of stairs. When the guy came up the stairs to fight back, Casey grabbed a baseball bat off the ground and swung a few times in the air. They cussed at each other for a minute or so, long enough for me to get my key in the door.
Casey turned to see me walking into my flat. He asked if I had resolved my lack of funds issue with Amy. I told him I had not. He laughed. I looked at the bat in his hand. He saw my consternation and set the bat back down, explaining to me that the guy he'd kicked out had not paid rent for a few months but always seemed to have enough money for dope.
I asked Casey what would happen if I missed a month's rent. He laughed again. He said he liked me 'cause I always stopped to say hello to him when he was around so he considered me a friend and could let a month's rent slip every now and then. Except maybe not the next month because a lot of people were skipping their rent and he was getting heat from the owner for being too soft. Thus justifying the loud display with my neighbour just now so everyone in the complex could hear Casey was getting serious about rent collection.
After Casey left, I hurried across the carpet into the kitchen to avoid feeding the fleas. The fridge was empty. The hidden bag of potato crisps was gone, presumably eaten by Amy and/or her boyfriend. All I had was the bar recipe book, my car key and a glass of warm water to drink.
I turned on the radio, listening to 90.3, WUTK, an alternative rock station at the time, playing some typical college rock and Reggae but also punk and other "noise" to calm us wild ones down.
I sat down and wrote a few poems that interlaced the Casey scenes with a broken love story. I thought about my girlfriend who was about to finish up her last quarter at Tennessee Tech, two hours' drive away from my forlorn location.
Quite frankly, I felt trapped and had thoughts of ending it all. I had failed miserably as a college student because I couldn't find a subject that interested me long enough to say it was something I wanted to do the rest of my life. I was working a job as a dishwasher training to be a bartender who couldn't pay the rent on a cheap flat because my flatmate had ditched me when I wouldn't take sexual favours in exchange for rent payments (her number and variation on a theme of sexual partners make "Sex and the City" look like amateur hour - I didn't know which or how many STDs she was carrying; best be broke than too poor to get fixed!).
I weighed my options. Face Casey and his bat in a few weeks. Quit my job and go back to school fulltime. Kill myself. Hit up my friends for money.
Finally, I decided to go see my girlfriend the next day.
I drove to Tennessee Tech and visited with my girlfriend for a while. By the way I said goodbye to her, she knew something was up (I think I said "Fair well" instead of "See you later"). I drove to Nashville, going to the Vanderbilt library to look at maps (I chose Vanderbilt because it was one of two places, including Georgia Tech, where I had I received full college scholarship offers when I was a senior in secondary school). I looked at all the places in the United States to visit. I thought about the storybook ending of driving off a cliff along the Pacific Coast Highway so I wrote down the names of interstate freeways I could travel to get there.
I decided I would drive to Seattle, Washington, and, if I hadn't decided to kill myself by then, I'd drive down to Pasadena to visit one of my childhood best friends majoring in Applied Science and Literature at Cal Tech.
Why am I telling you this right now? Because earlier today I was driving around north Alabama, enjoying the sunshine and scenery except for the glare of the dashboard reflecting in the windscreen. The midday glare reminded me of the long drive from Nashville to Seattle and the daily glare of the setting sun on the dashboard of the station wagon as I drove west from dawn to dusk in late September 1984.
I call the drive out west my Disneyland tour of the United States, riding past famous landmarks and vistas as if I sat on a monorail, stopping for nothing but petrol along the way. [The trip and the mini-adventures are ripe for telling another time.]
Hard to believe 25 years have passed by since I found myself in a nearly impossible situation, but I wouldn't (and can't) trade a minute of it. Nothing in my life up to then had been sufficient to stop my perpetual motion in one direction.
Casey at the Bat. A metaphor. A euphemism. A tired cliché. A cultural literary landmark. A legend of sports and Western society.
I could mask and twist and turn my adventure into an ironic or satirical farce that hides the facts and truth in some hilarious road trip or scary movie. Or I can let life plainly imitate art and share a slice of my life with you to let you know that I've been there with those of you whose lives didn't lead them where they or their families thought they should.
Like they say, failure is not an option. You make choices and then you make more choices. That's all we do. We choose to do whatever we want to do, even when we feel we're trapped and can't do anything we want.
Despite early setbacks, I retired comfortably at 45 to practice my writing more thoroughly. I've enjoyed this long, strange trip of the first half of my life through highs and lows and comedy and tragedy. Most of it's been fun. It's been one adventure after another, that's for sure. This midlife adventure of writing everyday has been a blast but it's time for my next adventure, which may take away from my daily writing.
With time, I'll let you know more. I'm interested in a small startup that should help create a few jobs in this economy of relatively high unemployment. Some of you I know will be perfect to help get this startup moving fast. Let's make it a success while we're having a blast and a good time. Life's too short not to enjoy what you're doing. I'll see you when you see me.
Oftentimes, life imitates art because we like to appear in art form ironically.
The manager of the Riverview Flat Complex told me his name was Casey. Casey stood about 5'8", his shoulders wide and upper body muscular. We chatted a few times while I moved furniture into the flat.
Casey had worked as a bouncer, earning the nickname "Casey at the Bat" for his use of a stick of wood to smack disruly patrons out the front door. Before his bouncer job, he had been a gymnastics instructor but gave up that job because he was getting too old to throw and catch out-of-control athletic bodies that flung themselves at him.
I had saved up enough money to pay the first month's rent as well as half the deposit. Amy was supposed to come up with the other half but she had lost her job and wanted to negotiate with me to cover the cost of both moving in and possibly future full payments of rent until she found a job.
By 1984, I had decided I was a writer. I did not qualify my writing ability and did not judge myself against a perfect model although I had writing heroes I looked up to, including Orwell, Burroughs, Tolkien, Poe and Plath. Little did I know of James Agee or Cormac McCarthy.
I had sought publication in two literary magazines, one at ETSU and one at UTK, getting my first rejection slips. I read the editions that could have contained what I had written - the literary magazine poetry/prose selections were no better or worse than mine. I decided that I had been right to start my own underground publication at ETSU called Swashbuckler. With the little money I had, I managed to publish a few issues of the Swashbuckler, including submissions by anonymous donors who had sent work to my student mailbox posted in the publisher section.
In Knoxville, Rus Harper, an experimental/punk musician, ran his own underground rag and I had little desire or money to compete against him so I supported his work.
By my second month in the flat, I realized I could not afford to support Amy's and my lifestyles. She was not my girlfriend so there was no incentive of long-lasting love to keep us together. On top of that, an infestation of fleas in the flat had reached a level I never thought possible, considering I barely had money for food, let alone flea killer insecticide power to cancel the circus act of my jumping and flipping around to avoid the nearly invisible acrobats nibbling any of my body parts they could get a hold of.
Given the choice of either roaches or fleas, I'll take roaches. At least they have the decency to avoid you when they share a flat with you.
But wait, that's not all! My bank account was overdrawn, I had no credit cards to charge my rent on, my flatmate had decided I was no fun since I wouldn't pay her half of the rent and provide us food, and my job at Steak&Ale restaurant was getting way too serious for me.
I had taken a job at Steak&Ale because my hours at Taco Bell were insufficient to provide a living wage. There were so many available workers from around the UTK campus that the Taco Bell management on the Strip could keep our weekly hours low, getting a full staff whenever they wished, making those of us with unusual school hours get lousy paychecks in the process.
But I had decided to quit school for a while. I had spent several years drifting from one institute of higher learning to another, switching majors like underwear, and was building a student loan I thought I'd never repay (probably around $4k to $6k at the time).
My job at Steak&Ale was simple - wash dishes, bus tables and put garnish on dinner plates, with occasional forays into the salad bar area to refill rabbit food containers. I liked the simplicity of the job but the management team saw I was too well organized, turning the dishwashing assignment into an efficient minifactory of clean utensils and other items that'll fit into a square, shiny-metal steam box, anticipating which plates, knives, forks and cooking gear needed to be ready next. Hey, is there anything the matter with taking pride in doing your job, no matter what it may be? Of course not.
That is, unless you don't want to get the attention of management. Since I was no longer in school, the general manager thought he'd put my natural "work ethic" initiative to work by training me to be a bartender and bookkeeper for Steak&Ale. After all, he said, most of his employees were either current or former college students and none of them showed the drive to perfect their jobs like me.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not bragging about being a dishwasher, busboy or salad bar tender. I just don't like hearing people being upset or disappointed about my interaction with them. You know what I mean. I dislike rejection of any kind.
So I carried the bar recipe book with me and studied the restaurant's accounting books - daily receipts, food expenses, etc. I worked at the bar a little so I could get used to the atmosphere and expectations of the bar patrons. If you've ever tended bar, you know the organizational mindset it takes to pretend like you're just some fun-loving goofy person who knows how to mix a few drinks and entertain those who want to watch you put on a show for good tips.
Meanwhile, because I was training for a new job, my per-hour pay was reduced to a training salary, making it completely impossible for me to pay the next month's rent.
I drove back to the Riverview complex and was prepared to tell Casey I was going to miss the next month's payment but could make it up with increased pay I expected to get with my accounting and bartending jobs in the coming months.
Have I ever told you this story? Probably not. As I said and you know, life imitates art. That afternoon, I walked up the flight of stairs to my flat and saw Casey drag a guy out of the adjacent flat. He held the guy's arm like a twig and literally threw the guy down another flight of stairs. When the guy came up the stairs to fight back, Casey grabbed a baseball bat off the ground and swung a few times in the air. They cussed at each other for a minute or so, long enough for me to get my key in the door.
Casey turned to see me walking into my flat. He asked if I had resolved my lack of funds issue with Amy. I told him I had not. He laughed. I looked at the bat in his hand. He saw my consternation and set the bat back down, explaining to me that the guy he'd kicked out had not paid rent for a few months but always seemed to have enough money for dope.
I asked Casey what would happen if I missed a month's rent. He laughed again. He said he liked me 'cause I always stopped to say hello to him when he was around so he considered me a friend and could let a month's rent slip every now and then. Except maybe not the next month because a lot of people were skipping their rent and he was getting heat from the owner for being too soft. Thus justifying the loud display with my neighbour just now so everyone in the complex could hear Casey was getting serious about rent collection.
After Casey left, I hurried across the carpet into the kitchen to avoid feeding the fleas. The fridge was empty. The hidden bag of potato crisps was gone, presumably eaten by Amy and/or her boyfriend. All I had was the bar recipe book, my car key and a glass of warm water to drink.
I turned on the radio, listening to 90.3, WUTK, an alternative rock station at the time, playing some typical college rock and Reggae but also punk and other "noise" to calm us wild ones down.
I sat down and wrote a few poems that interlaced the Casey scenes with a broken love story. I thought about my girlfriend who was about to finish up her last quarter at Tennessee Tech, two hours' drive away from my forlorn location.
Quite frankly, I felt trapped and had thoughts of ending it all. I had failed miserably as a college student because I couldn't find a subject that interested me long enough to say it was something I wanted to do the rest of my life. I was working a job as a dishwasher training to be a bartender who couldn't pay the rent on a cheap flat because my flatmate had ditched me when I wouldn't take sexual favours in exchange for rent payments (her number and variation on a theme of sexual partners make "Sex and the City" look like amateur hour - I didn't know which or how many STDs she was carrying; best be broke than too poor to get fixed!).
I weighed my options. Face Casey and his bat in a few weeks. Quit my job and go back to school fulltime. Kill myself. Hit up my friends for money.
Finally, I decided to go see my girlfriend the next day.
I drove to Tennessee Tech and visited with my girlfriend for a while. By the way I said goodbye to her, she knew something was up (I think I said "Fair well" instead of "See you later"). I drove to Nashville, going to the Vanderbilt library to look at maps (I chose Vanderbilt because it was one of two places, including Georgia Tech, where I had I received full college scholarship offers when I was a senior in secondary school). I looked at all the places in the United States to visit. I thought about the storybook ending of driving off a cliff along the Pacific Coast Highway so I wrote down the names of interstate freeways I could travel to get there.
I decided I would drive to Seattle, Washington, and, if I hadn't decided to kill myself by then, I'd drive down to Pasadena to visit one of my childhood best friends majoring in Applied Science and Literature at Cal Tech.
Why am I telling you this right now? Because earlier today I was driving around north Alabama, enjoying the sunshine and scenery except for the glare of the dashboard reflecting in the windscreen. The midday glare reminded me of the long drive from Nashville to Seattle and the daily glare of the setting sun on the dashboard of the station wagon as I drove west from dawn to dusk in late September 1984.
I call the drive out west my Disneyland tour of the United States, riding past famous landmarks and vistas as if I sat on a monorail, stopping for nothing but petrol along the way. [The trip and the mini-adventures are ripe for telling another time.]
Hard to believe 25 years have passed by since I found myself in a nearly impossible situation, but I wouldn't (and can't) trade a minute of it. Nothing in my life up to then had been sufficient to stop my perpetual motion in one direction.
Casey at the Bat. A metaphor. A euphemism. A tired cliché. A cultural literary landmark. A legend of sports and Western society.
I could mask and twist and turn my adventure into an ironic or satirical farce that hides the facts and truth in some hilarious road trip or scary movie. Or I can let life plainly imitate art and share a slice of my life with you to let you know that I've been there with those of you whose lives didn't lead them where they or their families thought they should.
Like they say, failure is not an option. You make choices and then you make more choices. That's all we do. We choose to do whatever we want to do, even when we feel we're trapped and can't do anything we want.
Despite early setbacks, I retired comfortably at 45 to practice my writing more thoroughly. I've enjoyed this long, strange trip of the first half of my life through highs and lows and comedy and tragedy. Most of it's been fun. It's been one adventure after another, that's for sure. This midlife adventure of writing everyday has been a blast but it's time for my next adventure, which may take away from my daily writing.
With time, I'll let you know more. I'm interested in a small startup that should help create a few jobs in this economy of relatively high unemployment. Some of you I know will be perfect to help get this startup moving fast. Let's make it a success while we're having a blast and a good time. Life's too short not to enjoy what you're doing. I'll see you when you see me.
15 November 2009
UTK
My family has multiple connections to the University of Tennessee at Knoxville, including alumni/graduates and office workers (I did my time there but didn't graduate). Factoid of the moment: tonight's NBC SNF game starring UTK grad/player Peyton Manning playing QB for Colts vs. Jerod Mayo playing LB for Patriots. Later this week, the U.S. space shuttle launch will put UTK grads in space, including Pilot Barry E. 'Butch' Wilmore (with a nod to his TTU degrees) and Spacewalker Randolph J. Bresnik. A shoutout to Mission specialist Leland D. Melvin for his brief NFL career cut short in training camp.
It's a small world, isn't it? We're one big team - I won't let you forget it, will I? ;^)
It's a small world, isn't it? We're one big team - I won't let you forget it, will I? ;^)
Out Of The Way
When you know that you know what you know, knowing that what you know will not change what people will do because you know they're going to act upon what they think they know, do you pretend to make an effort to stop them? Or do you let them do what you know they're going to do anyway?
Holding a copy of the Book of the Future, no matter how frail and temporary it may be, I solidly know what people will do. I don't have tea leaves or astrology or Nostradamus or woolly worms or any other method to divine the future. I simply have the simple facts of what people will do with the limited resources and options available to them. We tend to stay within our lanes of forward motion. In other words, we do not do what we do not know how to do.
Take all of our thoughts and skills and actions and plot them out through a pencil sharpener and you get the condensed version of what we'll do with who we are and what we have.
From the reactions of stageplay audiences to the announcements at global summits, we reveal who we were meant to be. Take old newspapers, cut out the names and places of the past and you can bet you can almost randomly stick in new names and places and see the newspaper articles or website headlines reappear in tomorrow's news.
The perspective of age and the wisdom of insight make one sigh with the comfort of knowing all is well with the world. We reinvent ourselves over and over, with our short lifetimes making us believe we are the next, new, bright, resourceful generation, the best that ever was.
Roving gangs of murderers change their titles but they don't change. Peaceniks find new causes to call their own. Causes of death vary by population habits but people still die on a regular basis. Our anatomy, our genetic makeup, our vessels for living evolve no matter what we believe about evolution.
From that, I navigate my way through life, knowing where most of the shoreline, shifting sandbars, thunderstorms and Murphy's Law popups will occur. Probability and statistics. I consult fancier and fancier versions of the typical switchboard operator who connects me to party lines so I can listen in on clandestine conversations between global leaders not meant for public dissemination.
Some people bet on their knowledge of the future. Natural risk-takers. Extrovertive exhibitionists. Showoffs. Gamblers. Braggadocios. The quiet, introvertive, millionaire next-door. Movers and shakers and benchsitters.
What do you do if you have the future in your hand? I sit back and relax, seeing that what I want to say about what people will or can do rarely changes their actions. A shopper may switch from buying a red shirt to a blue one because someone said blue is the next red but to the shirtmaker, that shopper is still buying a shirt. I may see people driving a government-issued vehicle on the weekend who charge their weekend use of their vehicle to their weekday job and then I decide to report those persons for misuse of government funds, stopping their source of secondary income, but they will probably find another way to make money from their job that I can't see. We may run into obstacles but we continue our habits in one form or another.
How do you see the future? You can do it just like me. Put aside any ethical or moral rose-coloured glasses that you wear. Observe people's habits. Get to know their available resources. Experiment once in a while by dropping a big stone in their path and see how they react (keeping in mind that the "stone" may be an action of yours that contradicts your set of beliefs and habits). Work with a set of computer programmers, with whom no one can connect you, to devise a massively-complex set of scenarios for tracking a large number of the members of our species. Get unsuspecting people to participate in fleshing out the details of one of the scenarios by calling it a game or social networking software. Figure out those who will not participate and set up observation posts to collect information on them, sometimes able to get those who will not participate in computer scenarios to "spy" on each other for you in the analog world.
Again, sit back and relax. Drink a pint of beer or a glass of wine. Treat life as if you're on one long holiday. Get out your pencil sharpener. Grind down a few pencils. Pull out the shavings and glue them together. Place the glued pieces over random newspaper articles from the past. Voila! You have the Book of the Future.
You don't have to believe me. I don't have to believe myself. I'm not trying to get rich from you by selling some snake oil or natural remedy cookbook that the medical authorities don't want you to know about. I'm just a good ol' boy from the hills of east Tennessee who grew up in suburban housing estates. I'm a firm believer in the placebo effect. I like natural opioids. A pile of cash in a hidden offshore account is certainly exhilarating to own but I get my thrills from looking at the changing seasons in the trees outside my window.
People rarely move outside their comfort zones. You can bank on that. Look for those who have insight into the power of crowd manipulation and get to know them so you will have a heads-up where trends are headed. Expect a certain percentage of rising stars to burn out early and fall back. Expect the occasional shooting star to come out of nowhere because you can't see in all directions at once.
That's it. Sit back and relax. Enjoy the show. Every now and then, catch a ride with the circus passing through town and then hitchhike back to your domicile, if you want; some of you will have fun and never go back. Don't forget to take your pencil sharpener, glue, a pair of scissors and a stack of old newspapers with you wherever you go.
See why I don't want to make money off you? I'm telling you the same story told over and over and over again, everyday, all the time. Some of you will be willing to pay a lot of money to believe you're hearing a new story for the very first time (look up P.T. Barnum for why people like that are too vulnerable for me). I don't want your money. I want you to find ways to enjoy yourself without spending your fortune on creating expensive urine or an emperor's new clothes. There are plenty of people out there who want your money - feel free to give them what they want; if that's what you want, then that's what you'll do, with or without me being here telling you the future.
I live in the moment. I can see the future but I can't live there. I reconstruct what I call the past because that's what I was trained to call selective memory but I don't live there, either. One moment at a time. That's all we've got. Either we're happy in the moment or we're not. And now it's the next moment. If you weren't happy before, you can be happy right now, knowing you're you and no one else, free to act with the resources available to you to be who you are meant to be in the moment.
People can change even if they tend not to. You can break the trends of what you were and where you're heading but first see yourself for who you are right now in this moment. You're you, with whatever you're capable of. You can take this moment to decide what to do with your capabilities right now, which change what your capabilities will be in the next moment. And so on.
I've spent the previous moment with you. Time to spend this next moment with my wife, cleaning the roof of fall leaves in preparation to hang winter holiday decorations, a form of SAD (seasonal affective disorder) lighting, if you will. Global leaders will pretend to have control of their countries' destinies even if they have no choice in what they do in this ecumenopolis. When do we stop pretending we're independent countries? Oh well, I already know that answer, don't I, here in the Book of the Future? I call it like I see it. I'm stepping out of the way to let you continue being you, who is part of me who is part of you. Huomiseen!
Holding a copy of the Book of the Future, no matter how frail and temporary it may be, I solidly know what people will do. I don't have tea leaves or astrology or Nostradamus or woolly worms or any other method to divine the future. I simply have the simple facts of what people will do with the limited resources and options available to them. We tend to stay within our lanes of forward motion. In other words, we do not do what we do not know how to do.
Take all of our thoughts and skills and actions and plot them out through a pencil sharpener and you get the condensed version of what we'll do with who we are and what we have.
From the reactions of stageplay audiences to the announcements at global summits, we reveal who we were meant to be. Take old newspapers, cut out the names and places of the past and you can bet you can almost randomly stick in new names and places and see the newspaper articles or website headlines reappear in tomorrow's news.
The perspective of age and the wisdom of insight make one sigh with the comfort of knowing all is well with the world. We reinvent ourselves over and over, with our short lifetimes making us believe we are the next, new, bright, resourceful generation, the best that ever was.
Roving gangs of murderers change their titles but they don't change. Peaceniks find new causes to call their own. Causes of death vary by population habits but people still die on a regular basis. Our anatomy, our genetic makeup, our vessels for living evolve no matter what we believe about evolution.
From that, I navigate my way through life, knowing where most of the shoreline, shifting sandbars, thunderstorms and Murphy's Law popups will occur. Probability and statistics. I consult fancier and fancier versions of the typical switchboard operator who connects me to party lines so I can listen in on clandestine conversations between global leaders not meant for public dissemination.
Some people bet on their knowledge of the future. Natural risk-takers. Extrovertive exhibitionists. Showoffs. Gamblers. Braggadocios. The quiet, introvertive, millionaire next-door. Movers and shakers and benchsitters.
What do you do if you have the future in your hand? I sit back and relax, seeing that what I want to say about what people will or can do rarely changes their actions. A shopper may switch from buying a red shirt to a blue one because someone said blue is the next red but to the shirtmaker, that shopper is still buying a shirt. I may see people driving a government-issued vehicle on the weekend who charge their weekend use of their vehicle to their weekday job and then I decide to report those persons for misuse of government funds, stopping their source of secondary income, but they will probably find another way to make money from their job that I can't see. We may run into obstacles but we continue our habits in one form or another.
How do you see the future? You can do it just like me. Put aside any ethical or moral rose-coloured glasses that you wear. Observe people's habits. Get to know their available resources. Experiment once in a while by dropping a big stone in their path and see how they react (keeping in mind that the "stone" may be an action of yours that contradicts your set of beliefs and habits). Work with a set of computer programmers, with whom no one can connect you, to devise a massively-complex set of scenarios for tracking a large number of the members of our species. Get unsuspecting people to participate in fleshing out the details of one of the scenarios by calling it a game or social networking software. Figure out those who will not participate and set up observation posts to collect information on them, sometimes able to get those who will not participate in computer scenarios to "spy" on each other for you in the analog world.
Again, sit back and relax. Drink a pint of beer or a glass of wine. Treat life as if you're on one long holiday. Get out your pencil sharpener. Grind down a few pencils. Pull out the shavings and glue them together. Place the glued pieces over random newspaper articles from the past. Voila! You have the Book of the Future.
You don't have to believe me. I don't have to believe myself. I'm not trying to get rich from you by selling some snake oil or natural remedy cookbook that the medical authorities don't want you to know about. I'm just a good ol' boy from the hills of east Tennessee who grew up in suburban housing estates. I'm a firm believer in the placebo effect. I like natural opioids. A pile of cash in a hidden offshore account is certainly exhilarating to own but I get my thrills from looking at the changing seasons in the trees outside my window.
People rarely move outside their comfort zones. You can bank on that. Look for those who have insight into the power of crowd manipulation and get to know them so you will have a heads-up where trends are headed. Expect a certain percentage of rising stars to burn out early and fall back. Expect the occasional shooting star to come out of nowhere because you can't see in all directions at once.
That's it. Sit back and relax. Enjoy the show. Every now and then, catch a ride with the circus passing through town and then hitchhike back to your domicile, if you want; some of you will have fun and never go back. Don't forget to take your pencil sharpener, glue, a pair of scissors and a stack of old newspapers with you wherever you go.
See why I don't want to make money off you? I'm telling you the same story told over and over and over again, everyday, all the time. Some of you will be willing to pay a lot of money to believe you're hearing a new story for the very first time (look up P.T. Barnum for why people like that are too vulnerable for me). I don't want your money. I want you to find ways to enjoy yourself without spending your fortune on creating expensive urine or an emperor's new clothes. There are plenty of people out there who want your money - feel free to give them what they want; if that's what you want, then that's what you'll do, with or without me being here telling you the future.
I live in the moment. I can see the future but I can't live there. I reconstruct what I call the past because that's what I was trained to call selective memory but I don't live there, either. One moment at a time. That's all we've got. Either we're happy in the moment or we're not. And now it's the next moment. If you weren't happy before, you can be happy right now, knowing you're you and no one else, free to act with the resources available to you to be who you are meant to be in the moment.
People can change even if they tend not to. You can break the trends of what you were and where you're heading but first see yourself for who you are right now in this moment. You're you, with whatever you're capable of. You can take this moment to decide what to do with your capabilities right now, which change what your capabilities will be in the next moment. And so on.
I've spent the previous moment with you. Time to spend this next moment with my wife, cleaning the roof of fall leaves in preparation to hang winter holiday decorations, a form of SAD (seasonal affective disorder) lighting, if you will. Global leaders will pretend to have control of their countries' destinies even if they have no choice in what they do in this ecumenopolis. When do we stop pretending we're independent countries? Oh well, I already know that answer, don't I, here in the Book of the Future? I call it like I see it. I'm stepping out of the way to let you continue being you, who is part of me who is part of you. Huomiseen!
14 November 2009
Prawn Shop Special
R&B. Rhythm and blues. Flies and lobsters and Episcopalians. Brass candlesticks. Isodora jewelry. In the moment in the moment. Foot pedal loops. Beats. Riffs. Traffic cones. Projection TV. Book sale. A lobsterfest of a support team. Guitar box or cigar box? Electrified strings. In, in the, in, the in, in the moment, mo...mo...moment. Microwave Dave in solo heaven, preaching with chords, not rosary beads.
Repeat.
Bake sale. Silent auction. The guru, the wunderkinder, the kind gardener, tending the frets, leading and following himself in some farout place with all of the ritual and none of the guilt. We freely bow to someone's freedom to be, the master of his universe, Europe can't have him, he's our hometown hero.
Cut and paste.
Bake sale. Silent auction, he's our hometown hero. The guru, the wunderkinder, R&B. Flies and lobsters and Isodora jewelry and none of the guilt. Foot pedal loops. Beats. Riffs. Europe can't have him, traffic cones lobsterfest of a support team. Guitar box or cigar box Episcopalians? Electrified strings in the moment. In, in, the in, in the we freely bow to someone's freedom to be in the moment, mo...mo...moment. Microwave Dave in solo heaven, not rosary beads. Book sale. The kind gardener, projection TV. Rhythm and blues tending the frets, brass candlesticks leading and following himself in some farout place with all of the ritual, the master of his universe preaching with chords in the moment.
Repeat and rewind. Peter and winder.
= = =
Blue chicory curtains. Another blues set, a variation on "White Christmas," the musical, the Alabama premiere.
Rewind 30 years. I was president of the secondary school drama club my junior and senior years. I was not the best singer or the best actor. I was funny enough to be popular enough to get elected to an honorary title of an office. Some people looked up to me. I looked out for humour. I oversaw an eclectic group of troubadours and cast and crew (a/k/a the troublemakers).
Fast-forward 30 years. I have a nephew who'll direct a comedy opera at his magnet school in 2010. In 2009, on the 14th of November, I joined my wife and friends for a musical performance at a magnet secondary school whose coordinator is a friend of ours.
Two approaches to a critical review. One, write an alternative view, riffing on the actors' performance as if their show was a satirical riff on the play within the play (first, figure out what riff is - the word sounds interesting but holds no meaning to me other than its sound). Second, hold the actors' capabilities and performances to the highest standards and judge them accordingly, throwing in side comments about such observations as the costumers admiring their work during the intermission ("will the white vests appear in the second act?").
Lee Lyric Theatre. New director. New direction. How do you get the players to feel the words of their memorized lines instead of speaking them? How do you make them absorb their characters and project their lines as if they're ad-libbing in the moment?
When I wrote for the Huntsville Times newspaper for a season or two of secondary school sports back in the mid-1990s working for John F. and Chris W., the point was made that we never say one team was trounced, smashed, beaten or in any negative form should we state that they lost. The other team won. Focus on the positive. Get a quote from the winning coach. Include key stats of the game and comments about the plays of the best players.
Think about this situation for a moment. I have covered secondary school sports, including football, baseball, and basketball. I covered college and professional hockey. I reported on the college women's national basketball championship for a weekly publication. I was a member of the Alabama sports writers association so I got to vote for the Alabama secondary school and professional player of the year. Now I sit here looking over a similar set of notes from another secondary school event.
Secondary school students spend their waking hours thinking about other secondary school students. They also find time to study school assignments and devote their thoughts to extracurricular activities.
A stageplay. A musical. Memorizing dialog. Blocking. Dancing. Singing. Entrances. Exits. Costume fittings. Auditions. Rehearsals. Face makeup.
Just like an American football or international basketball game. Drama. Teamwork.
Some of these students will continue their studies. They will take their new skills to the next level. Which one? Jacobi Hall, the Bing Crosby crooner? Thomas Najjar, the Danny Kaye character? Anna Quirk and Julia Erwin, the Haynes sisters? Chris Sebastian, the modern twist on a modern major general? Forest Bonner, the Martha Washington of Joan Rivers' take on Martha Watson? Lauren Bakke, playing little Susie? Toryn Washington, the real estate agent turned TV producer?
Flashback. I remember sitting in the green room 30 years ago. Flirting backstage while waiting for my next scene, quietly whispering sweet nothings and other carrying on. Turning my back so fellow actors who happened to be female could make quick costume changes. The hard work by the stage manager and the propmakers. The repeated rehearsals by the pit orchestra.
Where is everybody now? One of the orchestra members is the Microwave Dave of my hometown, performing gigs at blues clubs and running website info for the local newspaper, writing his own column, too. The main female leads are both teachers. One of the male leads is a television news anchor. Another male lead is a singer/songwriter in Nashville, having appeared on the TV show Star Search hosted by Ed McMahon. Most of us lead lives in which musical performance or stageplays are ancillary to what we mainly do - church choirs, community theater, occasional cruise ship gigs.
Back to the future. Tonight's performers will find themselves in similar situations. Rare is the sports figure in secondary school who plays professional ball. Just as rare is the secondary school stage star who becomes a movie icon or Broadway legend. Instead, we live for the moment, pushing past who we are to be who we are not.
Outstanding moments tonight:... Anna Quirk in a stunning dress, Gossip Girl style, in the Regency Room scene. Anna and Jacobi Hall reprising "How Deep is the Ocean." Thomas Najjar, Julia Erwin and the chorus in their tap-dancing vests for "I Love a Piano," smiles all around. Anna, Julia and Forest Bonner in their trio singing "Falling Out of Love Can Be Fun." Scooter (Justin Jordan?) and his wig dancing at the piano. Jacobi and Thomas singing "Sisters." Everybody in the scene singing/dancing "Blue Skies." Forest in just about any scene. Lauren Bakke being cute without being too cute. Christina Crutcher and Emily Bannister strutting their stuff. Jonathan Long doing his best impression of "Hi, I'm Larry. This is my brother Darryl, and this is my other brother Darryl," from the Bob Newhart TV show. Jessica Jones shining in her roles. Others whose faces I can't put with names - you were still enjoyable to watch. The orchestra being clear and crisp and not too loud.
Of course, what is this production without the audience joining in singing the signature song while snow falls in the picturesque scene on stage?
Did the ensemble score a touchdown or sink a three-pointer from half court tonight? No, because this wasn't a sports competition. Even so, they won astoundingly. They competed against their worst fears and stage fright and miscues that the audience will never know about and made us smile and laugh and sing along.
= = =
I will happily fall asleep humming "Blue Skies" to myself and call this a successful day, bookended by the intricacies of Microwave Dave playing against and with his thoughts in musical form; secondary school students, production staff and professional pit orchestra cooperating to lay down another set of memorable tracks later on, a blend of other adventures in between. I put my hands together and bow in thankful peace. Today was a moment in the moment worth remembering. Thanks, y'all. G'night.
Repeat.
Bake sale. Silent auction. The guru, the wunderkinder, the kind gardener, tending the frets, leading and following himself in some farout place with all of the ritual and none of the guilt. We freely bow to someone's freedom to be, the master of his universe, Europe can't have him, he's our hometown hero.
Cut and paste.
Bake sale. Silent auction, he's our hometown hero. The guru, the wunderkinder, R&B. Flies and lobsters and Isodora jewelry and none of the guilt. Foot pedal loops. Beats. Riffs. Europe can't have him, traffic cones lobsterfest of a support team. Guitar box or cigar box Episcopalians? Electrified strings in the moment. In, in, the in, in the we freely bow to someone's freedom to be in the moment, mo...mo...moment. Microwave Dave in solo heaven, not rosary beads. Book sale. The kind gardener, projection TV. Rhythm and blues tending the frets, brass candlesticks leading and following himself in some farout place with all of the ritual, the master of his universe preaching with chords in the moment.
Repeat and rewind. Peter and winder.
= = =
Blue chicory curtains. Another blues set, a variation on "White Christmas," the musical, the Alabama premiere.
Rewind 30 years. I was president of the secondary school drama club my junior and senior years. I was not the best singer or the best actor. I was funny enough to be popular enough to get elected to an honorary title of an office. Some people looked up to me. I looked out for humour. I oversaw an eclectic group of troubadours and cast and crew (a/k/a the troublemakers).
Fast-forward 30 years. I have a nephew who'll direct a comedy opera at his magnet school in 2010. In 2009, on the 14th of November, I joined my wife and friends for a musical performance at a magnet secondary school whose coordinator is a friend of ours.
Two approaches to a critical review. One, write an alternative view, riffing on the actors' performance as if their show was a satirical riff on the play within the play (first, figure out what riff is - the word sounds interesting but holds no meaning to me other than its sound). Second, hold the actors' capabilities and performances to the highest standards and judge them accordingly, throwing in side comments about such observations as the costumers admiring their work during the intermission ("will the white vests appear in the second act?").
Lee Lyric Theatre. New director. New direction. How do you get the players to feel the words of their memorized lines instead of speaking them? How do you make them absorb their characters and project their lines as if they're ad-libbing in the moment?
When I wrote for the Huntsville Times newspaper for a season or two of secondary school sports back in the mid-1990s working for John F. and Chris W., the point was made that we never say one team was trounced, smashed, beaten or in any negative form should we state that they lost. The other team won. Focus on the positive. Get a quote from the winning coach. Include key stats of the game and comments about the plays of the best players.
Think about this situation for a moment. I have covered secondary school sports, including football, baseball, and basketball. I covered college and professional hockey. I reported on the college women's national basketball championship for a weekly publication. I was a member of the Alabama sports writers association so I got to vote for the Alabama secondary school and professional player of the year. Now I sit here looking over a similar set of notes from another secondary school event.
Secondary school students spend their waking hours thinking about other secondary school students. They also find time to study school assignments and devote their thoughts to extracurricular activities.
A stageplay. A musical. Memorizing dialog. Blocking. Dancing. Singing. Entrances. Exits. Costume fittings. Auditions. Rehearsals. Face makeup.
Just like an American football or international basketball game. Drama. Teamwork.
Some of these students will continue their studies. They will take their new skills to the next level. Which one? Jacobi Hall, the Bing Crosby crooner? Thomas Najjar, the Danny Kaye character? Anna Quirk and Julia Erwin, the Haynes sisters? Chris Sebastian, the modern twist on a modern major general? Forest Bonner, the Martha Washington of Joan Rivers' take on Martha Watson? Lauren Bakke, playing little Susie? Toryn Washington, the real estate agent turned TV producer?
Flashback. I remember sitting in the green room 30 years ago. Flirting backstage while waiting for my next scene, quietly whispering sweet nothings and other carrying on. Turning my back so fellow actors who happened to be female could make quick costume changes. The hard work by the stage manager and the propmakers. The repeated rehearsals by the pit orchestra.
Where is everybody now? One of the orchestra members is the Microwave Dave of my hometown, performing gigs at blues clubs and running website info for the local newspaper, writing his own column, too. The main female leads are both teachers. One of the male leads is a television news anchor. Another male lead is a singer/songwriter in Nashville, having appeared on the TV show Star Search hosted by Ed McMahon. Most of us lead lives in which musical performance or stageplays are ancillary to what we mainly do - church choirs, community theater, occasional cruise ship gigs.
Back to the future. Tonight's performers will find themselves in similar situations. Rare is the sports figure in secondary school who plays professional ball. Just as rare is the secondary school stage star who becomes a movie icon or Broadway legend. Instead, we live for the moment, pushing past who we are to be who we are not.
Outstanding moments tonight:... Anna Quirk in a stunning dress, Gossip Girl style, in the Regency Room scene. Anna and Jacobi Hall reprising "How Deep is the Ocean." Thomas Najjar, Julia Erwin and the chorus in their tap-dancing vests for "I Love a Piano," smiles all around. Anna, Julia and Forest Bonner in their trio singing "Falling Out of Love Can Be Fun." Scooter (Justin Jordan?) and his wig dancing at the piano. Jacobi and Thomas singing "Sisters." Everybody in the scene singing/dancing "Blue Skies." Forest in just about any scene. Lauren Bakke being cute without being too cute. Christina Crutcher and Emily Bannister strutting their stuff. Jonathan Long doing his best impression of "Hi, I'm Larry. This is my brother Darryl, and this is my other brother Darryl," from the Bob Newhart TV show. Jessica Jones shining in her roles. Others whose faces I can't put with names - you were still enjoyable to watch. The orchestra being clear and crisp and not too loud.
Of course, what is this production without the audience joining in singing the signature song while snow falls in the picturesque scene on stage?
Did the ensemble score a touchdown or sink a three-pointer from half court tonight? No, because this wasn't a sports competition. Even so, they won astoundingly. They competed against their worst fears and stage fright and miscues that the audience will never know about and made us smile and laugh and sing along.
= = =
I will happily fall asleep humming "Blue Skies" to myself and call this a successful day, bookended by the intricacies of Microwave Dave playing against and with his thoughts in musical form; secondary school students, production staff and professional pit orchestra cooperating to lay down another set of memorable tracks later on, a blend of other adventures in between. I put my hands together and bow in thankful peace. Today was a moment in the moment worth remembering. Thanks, y'all. G'night.
......
A prisoner of time, resolute in the belief of the doubt of one's belief, drawing with one hand on a chalkboard the image of one's self in motion while erasing the image with the other hand.
Moths on the run, hiding from birds on the move. Broken wings. Missing feathers. No philosophy for philosophy's sake. Eat while you can fly and see and peck and swallow. Live and hide and fly to keep from being eaten before reproducing.
A curtain of falling leaves tuned to the rhythm of a Glass piece.
A hand position that says halt, a hand position that says come forward. Frozen in a tub of gelatin.
Letting thoughts go on by without stopping to say hello to their flashing frenzy.
Less exposure to the universe than a cosmic ray. Planet's albedo just as dim from a distance.
Searching for one word. Not serendipity. Not kismet. Not fate. Not destiny. The momentary intersection of local phenomena that reflects the infinite, happening because it happened, over with because it's past. Moment not good enough to describe a moment good enough to remember but knowing you can't keep.
If someone wants comforting imagery, then keep my observations to myself. I only see what I think I believe I want to see that I think I just saw. We know the facts and the truth are just words. The unidentified species of the flying object that just grabbed the other smaller flying object with its hard, pointed pair of clamping objects and flew off is just an image in my thoughts of what I think is a bird eating a moth. How much do I know and how much have I been taught to say I know?
If we knew that the universe is not the universe as we think we know the universe, what would we know? We say we are a water-based, oxygen-breathing set of unique organisms because that's what we want to say we know we believe. What will we know when we believe we know we say otherwise?
I know that someone(s) or some group will want to say they were the first to know they knew the knowledge of what we didn't know before but that's still just following the knowledge of the old paradigm ["still just," a phrase used lazily to replace more thought-out, thoughtful idioms].
I am what I believe to be one person whose life was transformed by knowledge that is not mine. I was trained to believe I am part of one species able to distinguish itself from others on the same planet because of its ability to adapt to all environments on one planet. I was taught that there are planets and solar systems and galaxies and super clusters and other temporary confluences in a nearly infinite complex called the universe.
Who am I to see that I should not believe what I doubt I was taught to believe? The roots of a potted tree will twist back around on themselves while seeking life until they choke the tree to death. We say it is a tree. We say it is a potted tree. We say the potted tree has roots. Where does the tree get life? Where does the tree give life? What do we say we know we believe is life? What do we believe? What do we know? What do we believe we know?
I sought and I found. I found what I did not know I knew or would believe. What I know is not important because I can erase myself as I go along without disrupting those around me who know what they know and believe. The beauty of freedom, of a kismet-like moment, is the freedom not to be who we said we knew we believed to be a moment ago. These are "still just" words. Those are "still just" trees shedding their leaves. That is "still just" a bird eating a moth. Perhaps the kismet-like moment is "still just"? What do you think?
Moths on the run, hiding from birds on the move. Broken wings. Missing feathers. No philosophy for philosophy's sake. Eat while you can fly and see and peck and swallow. Live and hide and fly to keep from being eaten before reproducing.
A curtain of falling leaves tuned to the rhythm of a Glass piece.
A hand position that says halt, a hand position that says come forward. Frozen in a tub of gelatin.
Letting thoughts go on by without stopping to say hello to their flashing frenzy.
Less exposure to the universe than a cosmic ray. Planet's albedo just as dim from a distance.
Searching for one word. Not serendipity. Not kismet. Not fate. Not destiny. The momentary intersection of local phenomena that reflects the infinite, happening because it happened, over with because it's past. Moment not good enough to describe a moment good enough to remember but knowing you can't keep.
If someone wants comforting imagery, then keep my observations to myself. I only see what I think I believe I want to see that I think I just saw. We know the facts and the truth are just words. The unidentified species of the flying object that just grabbed the other smaller flying object with its hard, pointed pair of clamping objects and flew off is just an image in my thoughts of what I think is a bird eating a moth. How much do I know and how much have I been taught to say I know?
If we knew that the universe is not the universe as we think we know the universe, what would we know? We say we are a water-based, oxygen-breathing set of unique organisms because that's what we want to say we know we believe. What will we know when we believe we know we say otherwise?
I know that someone(s) or some group will want to say they were the first to know they knew the knowledge of what we didn't know before but that's still just following the knowledge of the old paradigm ["still just," a phrase used lazily to replace more thought-out, thoughtful idioms].
I am what I believe to be one person whose life was transformed by knowledge that is not mine. I was trained to believe I am part of one species able to distinguish itself from others on the same planet because of its ability to adapt to all environments on one planet. I was taught that there are planets and solar systems and galaxies and super clusters and other temporary confluences in a nearly infinite complex called the universe.
Who am I to see that I should not believe what I doubt I was taught to believe? The roots of a potted tree will twist back around on themselves while seeking life until they choke the tree to death. We say it is a tree. We say it is a potted tree. We say the potted tree has roots. Where does the tree get life? Where does the tree give life? What do we say we know we believe is life? What do we believe? What do we know? What do we believe we know?
I sought and I found. I found what I did not know I knew or would believe. What I know is not important because I can erase myself as I go along without disrupting those around me who know what they know and believe. The beauty of freedom, of a kismet-like moment, is the freedom not to be who we said we knew we believed to be a moment ago. These are "still just" words. Those are "still just" trees shedding their leaves. That is "still just" a bird eating a moth. Perhaps the kismet-like moment is "still just"? What do you think?
Back To The I
I decided to stop teaching at the local technical institute. Obviously, being a person, my reasons are personal. However, the personal reasons are not private.
Why have I decided to stop teaching even though I enjoyed sharing my life with those willing to pay me to learn? Because I did not want to compete with the thoughts and words which taught me more than I can give back, including those from my philosophy/logic teacher at Walters State Community College, Gary Acquaviva:
I stopped teaching because I am a wanderer awed by the wonders of the world around me. I see without having a reason to systematically catalog and categorize a worldview except for these words that show to myself I existed outside this moment I'm in.
Teaching in a formalized classroom structure using someone else's classroom instructional material is always reconstructing the past for someone else's vision, view and hope for seeing how quickly students learn and adapt. I value my students' time in the moment too much to try to adapt my life in the moment to seeing how students adapt to material which is not mine.
My time here is limited, down to 14,783 days or so, if I take care of myself as a body. I care about my species but I am also a selfish person. I have goals that conflict with trying to outshine my previous professional professors/instructors/teachers. I do not want to compete with the images in my thoughts of the ones who taught me more than the classroom material they had to work with in the time we had to spend together in a classroom setting.
My hat's off to those who teach, who give their all to their instructional style, who see into the thoughts of their students individually and tailor their teaching to maximize the value and quality of time together with every one.
My journey takes me to farther fields to study further. My comprehension of my place on this planet and our place in the universe absorbs all the time I have. So far, my understanding of the languages of our species tells me we have a lot to learn and you have tons to teach me. We feel like we have accomplished much in our science and technology but we know so little that amazement still wakes me up in the morning to discover more.
Most importantly, I have learned I do not need to feel rushed in my attempt to grasp what's in front of me. The bombardment of stimuli will increase faster and faster. Thus, I risk missing more and more. However, our population grows and people specialise more and more everyday. Therefore, I can trust specialists to answer my questions or query for knowledge to aid my learning, building our knowledge sets in blogs and online databases for all to search, with pockets of secrets and intellectual property waiting to be revealed in some future moment I may never see.
A nod to every teacher, every aide, every instructor, every professor who agreed to work with me in the world of education so we could enjoy some time together. Formality brought us together. Informality made us friends. Insight made me full of wonder. I give thanks to you for being you so we could become us. This blog reflects who I am because of you.
I am not an island. I am a project under construction which has seen the light of day but has not completed its transformation into a fully-working product. I am the drop of rain which becomes an ocean wave that becomes a tidal pool which evaporates, becomes clouds which turn back into rain. One day I was a project manager. One day I was a retired person. One day I was a business owner. One day I was an instructor. Tomorrow I will be..? Well, I will be me just as I am me in this moment. I wander forward in wonder, always ready for who's next to be me.
Why have I decided to stop teaching even though I enjoyed sharing my life with those willing to pay me to learn? Because I did not want to compete with the thoughts and words which taught me more than I can give back, including those from my philosophy/logic teacher at Walters State Community College, Gary Acquaviva:
http://www.valueviva.com/I write this blog believing I am the only one who reads this. Thus, I am sitting here talking with myself via a computer keyboard, every word an instant feedback to my bodily thought process, a condensed version of all the input/output of the environment surrounding me and this electronic machine.
I stopped teaching because I am a wanderer awed by the wonders of the world around me. I see without having a reason to systematically catalog and categorize a worldview except for these words that show to myself I existed outside this moment I'm in.
Teaching in a formalized classroom structure using someone else's classroom instructional material is always reconstructing the past for someone else's vision, view and hope for seeing how quickly students learn and adapt. I value my students' time in the moment too much to try to adapt my life in the moment to seeing how students adapt to material which is not mine.
My time here is limited, down to 14,783 days or so, if I take care of myself as a body. I care about my species but I am also a selfish person. I have goals that conflict with trying to outshine my previous professional professors/instructors/teachers. I do not want to compete with the images in my thoughts of the ones who taught me more than the classroom material they had to work with in the time we had to spend together in a classroom setting.
My hat's off to those who teach, who give their all to their instructional style, who see into the thoughts of their students individually and tailor their teaching to maximize the value and quality of time together with every one.
My journey takes me to farther fields to study further. My comprehension of my place on this planet and our place in the universe absorbs all the time I have. So far, my understanding of the languages of our species tells me we have a lot to learn and you have tons to teach me. We feel like we have accomplished much in our science and technology but we know so little that amazement still wakes me up in the morning to discover more.
Most importantly, I have learned I do not need to feel rushed in my attempt to grasp what's in front of me. The bombardment of stimuli will increase faster and faster. Thus, I risk missing more and more. However, our population grows and people specialise more and more everyday. Therefore, I can trust specialists to answer my questions or query for knowledge to aid my learning, building our knowledge sets in blogs and online databases for all to search, with pockets of secrets and intellectual property waiting to be revealed in some future moment I may never see.
A nod to every teacher, every aide, every instructor, every professor who agreed to work with me in the world of education so we could enjoy some time together. Formality brought us together. Informality made us friends. Insight made me full of wonder. I give thanks to you for being you so we could become us. This blog reflects who I am because of you.
I am not an island. I am a project under construction which has seen the light of day but has not completed its transformation into a fully-working product. I am the drop of rain which becomes an ocean wave that becomes a tidal pool which evaporates, becomes clouds which turn back into rain. One day I was a project manager. One day I was a retired person. One day I was a business owner. One day I was an instructor. Tomorrow I will be..? Well, I will be me just as I am me in this moment. I wander forward in wonder, always ready for who's next to be me.
13 November 2009
Camping in Campuchea
Here. Ici. Sketching the outlines of the portrait of this moment using words. Beams. Welds. Pencil lines. Musical notation. Coloured lighting. Motions of a mechanical clock. The planet imperceptibly spinning. Tidal pools draining. Breathing. Mentally walking a friend's flat where every step, every motion is a living Tesla coil of exploding light and sound, a telharmonium wrapped around a theremin looped into holographic homemade commercial adverts for imaginary products in a prehistoric future lost in a space warp folded in on itself.
Being and unbeing. Olfactory nerve in overdrive from artificial flavour factories sensing scents, flaring nostrils and changing colour palettes stuck on retinal images of desktop wallpaper. Dusty, musty book covers mixed with cigarette residue favourable to chemical engineers familiar with prefixes and subprefixes and postsuffixes filling stuffy dictionaries. Digging deeper, past Eco's lists listing to one side of the Louvre. Past the Big Kahuna leaning right in ironman contests or three kings staring at goats like Jedi nightfalls.
Post. Posit. After the irony. Filtering out the satire. When modern is antique, antiquated, quaint, nostalgic.
Beyond the beyond. Myst in the mist. Fantasy sports free but costly.
Stripping away the layers, the Formica no longer cool, retro, glued particles pressed pressure pushing cushioned falls down.
Take off the hood, lift off the mask, peel away the skin, crack open the skull, look through the looks, no more gestures, no more jesting, jest in pun not punny where the sun doesn't shine shiny, no node, no personality, no feelings, no emptiness, no void, no universe. No mirrors oN. Madam I'm Adam.
Without these words, without this structure, without this brain, without this, without, with, out. Old world games. Old words.
Beyond asking. Beyond seeking. The answers behind us. The solutions in play, satisfying, soothing, comforting, calming, sleepy, sleeping, asleep, dreaming.
The moment, this moment, wondering. If not why now, then what now? If not what, then why? If not the sketch of this moment, then what is this moment unsketched? When did we say we had to be more than be in the moment?
Be. To exist. Is. Now. Now. Now. Now. Now. In this place. In this time. No other place. No other time. No other person but you in the now, now, now, now, now, now, now, now, now. Monotonal pitch. Monocolour sketch. Peace? Contentment? Freedom? Breath. Heartbeat. Incomplete thoughts. Slower breath. Slower heartbeat. No thoughts. No moment. No time. No place. Nothing, not even nothing. Wordless. Absent of canvas. Nothing to sketch nothing. The moment yours and nobody's. Never remembered, never forgotten. No body, no concerns. You in motion with the universe for one long, endless moment.
Call it prayer. Call it meditation. Call it relaxing. Call it what you like and the way you see it. Anyway way you are, be it.
Being and unbeing. Olfactory nerve in overdrive from artificial flavour factories sensing scents, flaring nostrils and changing colour palettes stuck on retinal images of desktop wallpaper. Dusty, musty book covers mixed with cigarette residue favourable to chemical engineers familiar with prefixes and subprefixes and postsuffixes filling stuffy dictionaries. Digging deeper, past Eco's lists listing to one side of the Louvre. Past the Big Kahuna leaning right in ironman contests or three kings staring at goats like Jedi nightfalls.
Post. Posit. After the irony. Filtering out the satire. When modern is antique, antiquated, quaint, nostalgic.
Beyond the beyond. Myst in the mist. Fantasy sports free but costly.
Stripping away the layers, the Formica no longer cool, retro, glued particles pressed pressure pushing cushioned falls down.
Take off the hood, lift off the mask, peel away the skin, crack open the skull, look through the looks, no more gestures, no more jesting, jest in pun not punny where the sun doesn't shine shiny, no node, no personality, no feelings, no emptiness, no void, no universe. No mirrors oN. Madam I'm Adam.
Without these words, without this structure, without this brain, without this, without, with, out. Old world games. Old words.
Beyond asking. Beyond seeking. The answers behind us. The solutions in play, satisfying, soothing, comforting, calming, sleepy, sleeping, asleep, dreaming.
The moment, this moment, wondering. If not why now, then what now? If not what, then why? If not the sketch of this moment, then what is this moment unsketched? When did we say we had to be more than be in the moment?
Be. To exist. Is. Now. Now. Now. Now. Now. In this place. In this time. No other place. No other time. No other person but you in the now, now, now, now, now, now, now, now, now. Monotonal pitch. Monocolour sketch. Peace? Contentment? Freedom? Breath. Heartbeat. Incomplete thoughts. Slower breath. Slower heartbeat. No thoughts. No moment. No time. No place. Nothing, not even nothing. Wordless. Absent of canvas. Nothing to sketch nothing. The moment yours and nobody's. Never remembered, never forgotten. No body, no concerns. You in motion with the universe for one long, endless moment.
Call it prayer. Call it meditation. Call it relaxing. Call it what you like and the way you see it. Anyway way you are, be it.
Rethinking the Box
As we contemplate life off this orb, we can rethink life on it. For instance, do you live in a box in a fixed location or one which is portable? If the latter, what about something like these:
- http://dornob.com/elegant-modern-prefab-homes-defy-portable-house-type/
- http://dornob.com/small-mobile-homes-bike-trailers-shopping-cart-campers/
- http://www.trailerwrap.net/
Translation: How can I take that which is not mine...
How can I take that which is not mine, already in my possession, which owns the world and which owns me? We have but we do not own - our thoughts of the possibilities of tomorrow, always promising, never fulfilled.
The Fantasy We Prefer
Spider webs between the limbs, ancient telegraph lines, the telegraph operators feeling for taps, vibrations, listening for signs of life, of death, a bite to eat, a siesta, a place to meet, mate and spend winter fiesta.
She looks at her daughter texting her friends while sitting in front of the television and computer, one ear to the phone. We have no time to ourselves anymore. We give our time away freely, our friends, our acquaintances throwing their lives into the community money pot, pulling out rumours and helpful hints, looking for the moment to give or get support.
When did we have time to learn new tasks when we were younger? Did we have fewer tasks to learn and took our time? Did we have fewer important details to memorize? Are we just filling in the slow minutes, the empty gaps of our childhood, mother to daughter?
Can her daughter cook any better than she can or her mother did? Her mother had the telephone to while away the time. She had the telephone and the television. Now her daughter has a smartphone, a computer and the television. Is life any better or worse than before?
Distances have gotten shorter. A blogger in a hard-to-pronounce country posting a recipe similar to the one her great-grandmother had written down, passed to her and she had lost in her early marriage years. Passing the recipe to her daughter, a legacy by proxy.
We grow too soon old and too late smart. Her daughter thinks she's wise, able to recall memories of a quieter childhood, where times seemed simpler and decisions easier to make. Simpler times and less affluence, darning socks and mending hand-me-downs, memories her daughter doesn't need to know.
She looks at the online calendar shared by her family and friends. Too many birthdays to remember. Thank goodness for automatic reminders.
She kisses her daughter on the forehead, picks up her crafting material and walks out to the garage.
Time for quilting class tonight. She'd read the instructions emailed to her by the teacher and should be able to pick up the hobby her mother, grandmother and great-grandmother had picked up before her. She found some old quilt squares in the cedar chest at the foot of the bed and would show them to the class. The teacher said they were going to learn more modern patterns to quilt so they could enter a regional quilting contest. She just wanted something to give her daughter that was hers and hers alone. But quilting's a community effort, something she would decide if she'd learn to appreciate.
She looked up at the spider webs in the corner of the garage. She wondered about the female spider sewing and resewing a new bed and food trap every night, needing no other spider to help. Where is the lesson in that web, timeless and temporary, the past and the future interchangeable? An automatic response. Was she quilting because she wanted to, or following an ancient, innate trait like the spider?
She pulled out her phone and read a message that the teacher was running late. She started the car and drove slowly, looking at the houses and the lives passing by. How many of them are just like her, socially well-connected and loved but looking for something personal to call their own?
She looks at her daughter texting her friends while sitting in front of the television and computer, one ear to the phone. We have no time to ourselves anymore. We give our time away freely, our friends, our acquaintances throwing their lives into the community money pot, pulling out rumours and helpful hints, looking for the moment to give or get support.
When did we have time to learn new tasks when we were younger? Did we have fewer tasks to learn and took our time? Did we have fewer important details to memorize? Are we just filling in the slow minutes, the empty gaps of our childhood, mother to daughter?
Can her daughter cook any better than she can or her mother did? Her mother had the telephone to while away the time. She had the telephone and the television. Now her daughter has a smartphone, a computer and the television. Is life any better or worse than before?
Distances have gotten shorter. A blogger in a hard-to-pronounce country posting a recipe similar to the one her great-grandmother had written down, passed to her and she had lost in her early marriage years. Passing the recipe to her daughter, a legacy by proxy.
We grow too soon old and too late smart. Her daughter thinks she's wise, able to recall memories of a quieter childhood, where times seemed simpler and decisions easier to make. Simpler times and less affluence, darning socks and mending hand-me-downs, memories her daughter doesn't need to know.
She looks at the online calendar shared by her family and friends. Too many birthdays to remember. Thank goodness for automatic reminders.
She kisses her daughter on the forehead, picks up her crafting material and walks out to the garage.
Time for quilting class tonight. She'd read the instructions emailed to her by the teacher and should be able to pick up the hobby her mother, grandmother and great-grandmother had picked up before her. She found some old quilt squares in the cedar chest at the foot of the bed and would show them to the class. The teacher said they were going to learn more modern patterns to quilt so they could enter a regional quilting contest. She just wanted something to give her daughter that was hers and hers alone. But quilting's a community effort, something she would decide if she'd learn to appreciate.
She looked up at the spider webs in the corner of the garage. She wondered about the female spider sewing and resewing a new bed and food trap every night, needing no other spider to help. Where is the lesson in that web, timeless and temporary, the past and the future interchangeable? An automatic response. Was she quilting because she wanted to, or following an ancient, innate trait like the spider?
She pulled out her phone and read a message that the teacher was running late. She started the car and drove slowly, looking at the houses and the lives passing by. How many of them are just like her, socially well-connected and loved but looking for something personal to call their own?
12 November 2009
Snapshot of a Pre-WWII Childhood/Post-WWII Adulthood
A few days ago I received a set of books from the childhood of two family relations of mine. In order of pulling them out of the cardboard box:
You, me - we have all the problems here before us. We have solutions hidden in attics and vaults, used and reused and resold and repackaged. We can repeat ourselves without knowing when, how or why and feel we've accomplished something new.
A name is not an answer. A symbol is not the thing it stands for. We approach the situation and apply salve rather than rub salt in the wounds unless smelling salts are required and then consciousness is raised for all.
Is Afghanistan South Africa, with Soweto and Swaziland coming and going as independent states within a state? Are protectorates an answer? Should self-rule include division of territories or complete reconfiguration? Permanent nomadic tribal zones? A Somali war zone? The semi-permeable, porous membranes between Syria and Iraq and between the U.S.A. and Mexico are not solutions, unless you want the feel-good measures of failed policies of the past.
How do you, in times like these, when people will work for any company that pays for their standard of living standards, let the apple cart seller keep pushing the military-industrial complex down the cobblestone street offering wares to anyone with ready cash so that small-scale, regional conflicts do not escalate into disruption on the global scale, every country getting a piece of the apple pie cooked up by unseen chefs that everyone knows about? How do you declare war on an enemy who does not exist? How do you avoid giving legitimacy to a group of people who want to declare you as their sworn enemy? How do you give them the inch they want without giving them the itch to take the next mile?
A people is faceless. A person has a face, a voice, a dream, a wish, a past, a present and a future in thoughts and action. How do you give the person the power for self-sufficiency? A person is a node in a social network. Which do you feed first, the node or the network?
A soldier given orders to find a perp will follow orders until ordered otherwise. What if the technology and business of soldiering was poured into farming and villaging, fighting famine and poverty? Could we still justify the government expense of such an endeavour? Could we overcome tribal resistance to interference in the hills of Kentucky and the Afghan terrain by applying new technology to improve the lives of tribes and clans without disrupting the life they want of being left alone? Could we find profitable crops to replace marijuana and poppies? Or do we legitimise the illicit drug trade by authorising growing zones, knowing a portion of the global population is susceptible to drug experimentation and abuse, no matter how much we teach abstinence? Is there an approach that satisfies liberals, moderates and conservatives in all walks of life at one point in time? One solution with many faceted applications?
Are we finally past fighting wars on grounds of religion or religious grounds? Can we get past using personal beliefs to mass bodies against one another? Or is that the only way to do so?
Millions of people out of work looking for help without wanting to resort to government aid. How do you spend a dollar somewhere else to generate four over here? How do you play with exchange rates to put debts into play? The EUBRICUSASEAN alliance cooperating on/competing for setting up an alternative/green power/Internet grid in Afghanistan? If you can do it there, you can do it anywhere. Another alternative, with Afghan tribes like native American (American Indian) reservations building gambling casinos in the middle of the U.S.A., sharing the profits with professional developers. If the so-called Christian West can condone taking money from gambling heathens then can't the Muslim East take money from gambling infidels?
I don't know. I'm just asking questions I'm digging up from a box of old books. The solutions are up to all of us to work together and figure out.
- The Illustrated Bible Story Book by Seymour Loveland, (c) 1935 by Rand McNally, edition of 1938
- Harbrace College Handbook by John C. Hodges (The University of Tennessee), (c) 1941, 1946 by Harcourt, Brace and Company, Inc.
- The Yeats Country - a guide to the places in the West of Ireland associated with the life and writings of William Butler Yeats, (c) 1962, 1963 the Dolmen Press
- "Survival Under Atomic Attack," February 1951, Department of the Army Pamphlet No. 20-111
- Walk In His Ways by Marian Black, given on 17th July 1943
- The Story Road by Gertrude Hildreth (Teachers College Columbia University), (c) 1952 by The John C. Winston Company
- Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson, Illustrated by E.A. Wilson, (c) 1941 special contents of this edition by the Limited Editions Club, Inc., given on Christmas 1945
- So That's The Reason (Bobby and the Old Professor, Book I) by R. Ray Baker, Photographic Illustrations by E.N. Stanger, (c) 1939 by The Reilly & Lee Co.
- Housekeeping in Old Virginia, Edited by Marion Cabell Tyree, (c) 1879 by John P. Morton and Company, a reprint of the Original (c) MCMLXV, Favorite Recipes Press, Inc.
- Song and Service Book for Ship and Field, Army and Navy, Edited by Ivan L. Bennett, Chairman of the Editorial Committee, (c) 1941 by A.S. Barnes and Company, Inc.
- The Fields of Home by Ralph Moody, Illustrated by Tran Mawicke, (c) 1962 by W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., (c) 1953 by Ralph Moody
- Poems to Inspire by Nick Kenny, (c) 1959 by T.S. Denison & Company, Inc.
- One Hundred and One Famous Poems With a Prose Supplement (Revised Edition), An Anthology Compiled by Roy J. Cook, (c) 1958 by Contemporary Books, Inc.
- Reading-For-Men, (c) 1958 by Nelson Doubleday, Inc., given on 19th December 1958
You, me - we have all the problems here before us. We have solutions hidden in attics and vaults, used and reused and resold and repackaged. We can repeat ourselves without knowing when, how or why and feel we've accomplished something new.
A name is not an answer. A symbol is not the thing it stands for. We approach the situation and apply salve rather than rub salt in the wounds unless smelling salts are required and then consciousness is raised for all.
Is Afghanistan South Africa, with Soweto and Swaziland coming and going as independent states within a state? Are protectorates an answer? Should self-rule include division of territories or complete reconfiguration? Permanent nomadic tribal zones? A Somali war zone? The semi-permeable, porous membranes between Syria and Iraq and between the U.S.A. and Mexico are not solutions, unless you want the feel-good measures of failed policies of the past.
How do you, in times like these, when people will work for any company that pays for their standard of living standards, let the apple cart seller keep pushing the military-industrial complex down the cobblestone street offering wares to anyone with ready cash so that small-scale, regional conflicts do not escalate into disruption on the global scale, every country getting a piece of the apple pie cooked up by unseen chefs that everyone knows about? How do you declare war on an enemy who does not exist? How do you avoid giving legitimacy to a group of people who want to declare you as their sworn enemy? How do you give them the inch they want without giving them the itch to take the next mile?
A people is faceless. A person has a face, a voice, a dream, a wish, a past, a present and a future in thoughts and action. How do you give the person the power for self-sufficiency? A person is a node in a social network. Which do you feed first, the node or the network?
A soldier given orders to find a perp will follow orders until ordered otherwise. What if the technology and business of soldiering was poured into farming and villaging, fighting famine and poverty? Could we still justify the government expense of such an endeavour? Could we overcome tribal resistance to interference in the hills of Kentucky and the Afghan terrain by applying new technology to improve the lives of tribes and clans without disrupting the life they want of being left alone? Could we find profitable crops to replace marijuana and poppies? Or do we legitimise the illicit drug trade by authorising growing zones, knowing a portion of the global population is susceptible to drug experimentation and abuse, no matter how much we teach abstinence? Is there an approach that satisfies liberals, moderates and conservatives in all walks of life at one point in time? One solution with many faceted applications?
Are we finally past fighting wars on grounds of religion or religious grounds? Can we get past using personal beliefs to mass bodies against one another? Or is that the only way to do so?
Millions of people out of work looking for help without wanting to resort to government aid. How do you spend a dollar somewhere else to generate four over here? How do you play with exchange rates to put debts into play? The EUBRICUSASEAN alliance cooperating on/competing for setting up an alternative/green power/Internet grid in Afghanistan? If you can do it there, you can do it anywhere. Another alternative, with Afghan tribes like native American (American Indian) reservations building gambling casinos in the middle of the U.S.A., sharing the profits with professional developers. If the so-called Christian West can condone taking money from gambling heathens then can't the Muslim East take money from gambling infidels?
I don't know. I'm just asking questions I'm digging up from a box of old books. The solutions are up to all of us to work together and figure out.
मैं कैसे ले जा सकते हैं, जो मेरा नहीं है
मैं कैसे ले जो कि पहले से ही मेरे पास है, जो दुनिया का मालिक है और जो मेरे मालिक में मेरा नहीं है, कर सकते हैं? हम है, लेकिन हम खुद नहीं - कल की संभावनाओं के हमारे विचार, हमेशा वादा कभी नहीं निभाया.
11 November 2009
Jamocha Tapioca Pudding from Jamaica
What is beauty? A word. An idea. Mixing Debussy and Grand Master Flash over one another, a dove on a branch outside more concerned about keeping warm than keeping the beat. Does it ever seem odd to you that we'd give atmospheric phenomena personal names?
Young people today, with relatively high unemployment, have a world of possibilities ahead of them. Someone coined the phrase that it's easier to get into Harvard than to get a job. Yet, what's a job? Painting eyes on a plastic doll to be shipped to the other side of the world for holiday gift-giving? Cooking and mashing beans to put inside a rolled-up tortilla? Looking at photos and deciding how to set the fashion industry abuzz with your new accessory arrangement? Designing software applications for people to socialise online?
Friends of mine, from Frances to Estella, from Charline to Gary, use their waking hours for socialising, being productive the way they want to be known, some in conventional jobs and some not.
We are beautiful. We have jobs: we are ourselves. We define ourselves by how we act and react.
When we are raised to believe that working and consuming are our primary purposes for being, we set ourselves up for disappointment when those tasks are nearly impossible to achieve. A new friend of mine, Earle B., has lived a long, happy life not by defining who he is by what he consumes but by being there to support others who search for who they are to be.
Of course, we want to eat. We want to have safety and shelter. We are fascinated by new colours and sounds. We are driven to increase our self-worth by comparing ourselves to others in a social environment.
A whole generation experiencing unemployment levels of the Great Depression. An experiment at the ready. A chance to redefine the goals of our ecumenopolis. Someone said we can't just start over, we have too much invested in the current system. I wonder...
I fall in love with everyone I meet. I see the life within every person just wanting to scream and shout and enjoy life to the fullest, life a definition with no clear definition. In viewing that reaching out for life, I see what life has been for every person. History that will rarely find its way into the history books.
I know that life is not fair. Life rarely gives us a treat for very long, with pits inside peaches and sunburns in tropical paradises. But we know that already, unless we get carried away from our balanced view of life. Perspective makes us speculate and listen to speculators selling spectacular spectacles. Placebo pills that'll cure every ill. Instant gratification consumables that'll last forever. Blah, blah, blah. Blah. Bland when consumed over and over for too long, right?
Can we reset our pace to enjoy the pastoral life? Can the pastoral life give food, safety, shelter and sufficient enjoyment to seven billion of us?
In this moment, this break from the recent past of increased consumption, can we think outside this box, this internetworked world, and find viable solutions that cut off the tops and bottoms of the highs and lows of economic boom and bust cycles? Okay, look, I know we don't live in a fantasy world where leprechauns have pots of golds hidden at the end of every passing thunderstorm that'll get us out of this economic slump, international stimulus fund efforts to the contrary. But we can reset our expectations, can we not?
I am the children of migrants. My family has migrated from one place to another for generations, never settling down on one plot of land for very long. I have read about, researched and watched the effects of migration on our ecumenopolis. We call it world history, do we not? We are a wandering people, our species producing too many offspring to take care of the same place over and over so we tend to spread out.
Our numbers increase. Our population grows bigger. Older people live longer and younger people die less frequently. Prosperity has brought us medical marvels and clean drinking water in many places.
In our grasp is the definition of what success means to the generation that's coming into its own, just behind mine. My generation, the Me generation, the backside of the baby boomers, holds the key to the secret to life hidden in a box. We unlocked and have looked inside the box, slowly comprehending the meaning of life, our views vastly transformed by the discovery of success that transcends material wealth. We know we are the keepers of ourselves a thousand generations from now. We want to hold the key a bit longer because the power of knowledge is too vast, we think, to give to others. But time marches on. We will give the key to the keepers of ourselves 999 generations from now.
My sister and I talked on the phone last night. We tried to recall our views of life in the early 1980s when we were stepping out from our protected secondary school years into the world of relatively high unemployment in a prosperous capitalist-market based society. My sister worked at McDonald's. I worked at Montgomery Ward. We both attended university. We remember being told that we should be thankful we had jobs in the 1981/1982 economic slump, with teachers having to work at McDonald's and PhDs pumping gas once again.
What is beauty? It's Rihanna and Taylor Swift singing a duet in a movie starring Aishwarya Rai Bachchan. Beauty is musical, its rhythm set to our heartbeats and our thought patterns. We don't need jobs to be beautiful. We let our beauty shine and our lives unfold as if by magic, revealing ways to prosper we'd never imagined.
How do we emulate the pastoral life of balance with the land on which we live, seasonal, cyclical, sprinkling manure to grow food, fallowing one field while increasing the productivity of another, sharing the harvest effectively and fairly, migrants feeding migrants, taking turns tending the soil, generation-to-generation and intergenerational, knowing we'll always have those who think they live in a novel like Animal Farm or Lord of the Flies, greed a matter of degrees, sometimes too hot and sometimes too cold, and yes, can you believe it, sometimes just right?
We listen to ourselves. We see the beauty within and let it out. We let ourselves fall in love with each other's beauty. We see we live on the only planet we've got right now, a giant pastoral farm, if you will. We can't trade it in for a new model, or move wholescale to a new one. We see our imperfections and lean on each other during lean times. We share our flats with friends out of work, and when we're out of work we help clean and cook for our friends whose flats we share. We redefine prosperity and remember that truth is beauty. And then we go from there.
Young people today, with relatively high unemployment, have a world of possibilities ahead of them. Someone coined the phrase that it's easier to get into Harvard than to get a job. Yet, what's a job? Painting eyes on a plastic doll to be shipped to the other side of the world for holiday gift-giving? Cooking and mashing beans to put inside a rolled-up tortilla? Looking at photos and deciding how to set the fashion industry abuzz with your new accessory arrangement? Designing software applications for people to socialise online?
Friends of mine, from Frances to Estella, from Charline to Gary, use their waking hours for socialising, being productive the way they want to be known, some in conventional jobs and some not.
We are beautiful. We have jobs: we are ourselves. We define ourselves by how we act and react.
When we are raised to believe that working and consuming are our primary purposes for being, we set ourselves up for disappointment when those tasks are nearly impossible to achieve. A new friend of mine, Earle B., has lived a long, happy life not by defining who he is by what he consumes but by being there to support others who search for who they are to be.
Of course, we want to eat. We want to have safety and shelter. We are fascinated by new colours and sounds. We are driven to increase our self-worth by comparing ourselves to others in a social environment.
A whole generation experiencing unemployment levels of the Great Depression. An experiment at the ready. A chance to redefine the goals of our ecumenopolis. Someone said we can't just start over, we have too much invested in the current system. I wonder...
I fall in love with everyone I meet. I see the life within every person just wanting to scream and shout and enjoy life to the fullest, life a definition with no clear definition. In viewing that reaching out for life, I see what life has been for every person. History that will rarely find its way into the history books.
I know that life is not fair. Life rarely gives us a treat for very long, with pits inside peaches and sunburns in tropical paradises. But we know that already, unless we get carried away from our balanced view of life. Perspective makes us speculate and listen to speculators selling spectacular spectacles. Placebo pills that'll cure every ill. Instant gratification consumables that'll last forever. Blah, blah, blah. Blah. Bland when consumed over and over for too long, right?
Can we reset our pace to enjoy the pastoral life? Can the pastoral life give food, safety, shelter and sufficient enjoyment to seven billion of us?
In this moment, this break from the recent past of increased consumption, can we think outside this box, this internetworked world, and find viable solutions that cut off the tops and bottoms of the highs and lows of economic boom and bust cycles? Okay, look, I know we don't live in a fantasy world where leprechauns have pots of golds hidden at the end of every passing thunderstorm that'll get us out of this economic slump, international stimulus fund efforts to the contrary. But we can reset our expectations, can we not?
I am the children of migrants. My family has migrated from one place to another for generations, never settling down on one plot of land for very long. I have read about, researched and watched the effects of migration on our ecumenopolis. We call it world history, do we not? We are a wandering people, our species producing too many offspring to take care of the same place over and over so we tend to spread out.
Our numbers increase. Our population grows bigger. Older people live longer and younger people die less frequently. Prosperity has brought us medical marvels and clean drinking water in many places.
In our grasp is the definition of what success means to the generation that's coming into its own, just behind mine. My generation, the Me generation, the backside of the baby boomers, holds the key to the secret to life hidden in a box. We unlocked and have looked inside the box, slowly comprehending the meaning of life, our views vastly transformed by the discovery of success that transcends material wealth. We know we are the keepers of ourselves a thousand generations from now. We want to hold the key a bit longer because the power of knowledge is too vast, we think, to give to others. But time marches on. We will give the key to the keepers of ourselves 999 generations from now.
My sister and I talked on the phone last night. We tried to recall our views of life in the early 1980s when we were stepping out from our protected secondary school years into the world of relatively high unemployment in a prosperous capitalist-market based society. My sister worked at McDonald's. I worked at Montgomery Ward. We both attended university. We remember being told that we should be thankful we had jobs in the 1981/1982 economic slump, with teachers having to work at McDonald's and PhDs pumping gas once again.
What is beauty? It's Rihanna and Taylor Swift singing a duet in a movie starring Aishwarya Rai Bachchan. Beauty is musical, its rhythm set to our heartbeats and our thought patterns. We don't need jobs to be beautiful. We let our beauty shine and our lives unfold as if by magic, revealing ways to prosper we'd never imagined.
How do we emulate the pastoral life of balance with the land on which we live, seasonal, cyclical, sprinkling manure to grow food, fallowing one field while increasing the productivity of another, sharing the harvest effectively and fairly, migrants feeding migrants, taking turns tending the soil, generation-to-generation and intergenerational, knowing we'll always have those who think they live in a novel like Animal Farm or Lord of the Flies, greed a matter of degrees, sometimes too hot and sometimes too cold, and yes, can you believe it, sometimes just right?
We listen to ourselves. We see the beauty within and let it out. We let ourselves fall in love with each other's beauty. We see we live on the only planet we've got right now, a giant pastoral farm, if you will. We can't trade it in for a new model, or move wholescale to a new one. We see our imperfections and lean on each other during lean times. We share our flats with friends out of work, and when we're out of work we help clean and cook for our friends whose flats we share. We redefine prosperity and remember that truth is beauty. And then we go from there.
10 November 2009
A Platform for Enhancing Performance
Part of me will always be part of me. I will always carry the tearer-apart, the see-what's-inside, the test-until-it-breaks geek in me. Thus, when I buy a new high-tech toy, I try it with something not originally made for it, such as open source software in closed hardware architecture. Link O' The Day for those who like to experiment.
Time for a lunch of home-delivered dinner, a Monday Night Football favourite filler, a rainy Tuesday leftover. Today's a good day for rugby, a real romp in the muddy rough.
Time for a lunch of home-delivered dinner, a Monday Night Football favourite filler, a rainy Tuesday leftover. Today's a good day for rugby, a real romp in the muddy rough.
A Nod to Motivation
I am not a motivational speaker. I live a life of the moment, which may or may not motivate others. However, I understand the need to hear the voice(s) of those who want to enhance the thoughts of their listeners. A facebook friend of mine, Johnny Roberts, is such a person.
I missed adding a reference to the last blog post, the list of sovereign states. Here is one such list from multiple websites:
I missed adding a reference to the last blog post, the list of sovereign states. Here is one such list from multiple websites:
Foursome
Of course, you're familiar with the exercise of hitting a round object with a stick so I needn't smack my knee 'gainst your funny bone or tickle your nose hairs 'bout golf. Like asking a blonde/blond if s/he's heard a joke about hair colour or asking a duck in the rain if the sound of a tree falling in a forest rolls off its back.
Four titles: "Henry V," "Falling Down," "Stranded," "Survival Under Atomic Attack"
Can you imagine a group of people perpetually maintaining the illusion of a superiour group that is outside time and not subject to any one subject except that its subjects take turns subjecting subjects to subjective analysis and rule? Yeah, then there's all the parts about them creating enmity for enemies to justify the enemy-fighting forces. Why be Don King when you can be donned king? Or chained to Cheney's LBJ-like rise to master Chen style tai chi chuan, Jack Ryan minus the Hollywood hairstyle.
A mask is still a mask. A Department of the Army pamphlet, No. 20-111, dated February 1951, is still just as informational:
When I was a small boy, my parents took me to visit my grandparents down in south Florida. We'd spend part of the time with them going to an amusement park up the road. I remember the amusement park for its packet of tickets with an alphabetic order my parents'd use in conjunction with our good behaviour, rewarding us with E-ticket rides. My favourite ride was the Haunted Mansion. I was fascinated by the special effects and the thoughts of hidden passages and ways to make things that go bump in the night.
We visited the park many times in my youth and we kids'd collect souvenirs during our trips. My alltime favourite souvenir was a secret panel chest with parquet-style inlaid wood. Because of that souvenir, I collect small wooden boxes with sliding drawers visibly hidden by woodgrain cuts. I had lost the WDW chest long ago and guess I've collected the boxes in a way we all try to relive our youth, Rosebud-style.
Outside, the atmospheric turbulence of HRH Ida plays one of my favourite rusted gutter tunes. You've heard me play it once - drip, plop, pour, drop - since I'm not a musician, I won't repeat myself. I trust your imagination for recreating a cool rain, leftover yellow leaves and bare redbud limbs.
I immersed myself in the local culture to see the effect of global-level decisionmaking. I wanted to hold a multicultural plan for the people in one hand and shake the hand of someone I know who's not able to put food on the table with the other. I admit it's a matter of trust. It's the tale of "pass the whisper" at a children's party that teaches me the distrust I hold for being at the top of an ivory tower or inside a warroom and knowing what's going on.
We all come from somewhere. We're all going somewhere. We can't count to seven billion fast enough to capture all the people alive in a single moment. Death and birth crashing onto the sandy shore too fast too see the reshaped sand grain and the shifting sand dunes in one eye.
Despite what we believe, we are an ecumenopolis. We always have been. We always will be here on this planet. We effect one another and affect one another all the time. We'll continue to be who we are because we don't change overnight. Not very easily. We're social creatures who don't always socialise well enough to be socially acceptable or responsible socially.
Fear of the unknown and the thrill of danger make haunted mansions popular and titles like "Henry V," "Falling Down," "Stranded," and "Survival Under Atomic Attack" possible. Every member of our species practices life uniquely although within macrosystem categories.
We want those who can translate one style of life into subcategories without blinking an eye or revealing why. Those who practice their subcategory to perfection do not want or need to know the existence of their subcategory's translation to other lifestyles, unless we want to prevent detrimental behaviours between two subgroups (which can be within the same subcategory, two different subcategories or crossed between major categories, etc., and so on, with more complex-sounding gobbledygook/claptrap here to sound official. [insert smiley face]).
How does one take life seriously and laugh at life at the same time? One laughs at life and takes death seriously at the same time. Comedy and Tragedy. Life and Death. Friend and Enemy. Yin and Yang. Positive and negative. Health and sickness. Opposites with no opposites because opposites attract.
I hold the universe on one flake of skin on the end of my last finger. On the next finger, the Milky Way galaxy. On the next finger, the solar system. On the forefinger, the planet Earth. On my thumb, my thumbprint. I hold my hand up and make the universal sign of nonthreatening peace. I roll my fingers up and make a fist. Power. Strength. The universe connected to my oily thumbprint.
What's the old saying about it's hard to make a fist when you're shaking someone's hand? If Iran wants to try three hikers as spies, then I can find ways to retaliate without bringing the news media into the picture. If you really want to trade the lives of three people for what I have to give you, then I won't stop you. But it's a path I don't want to take. Reality is only seven letters. The truth is whatever we want to write about. I want my easy-to-transport, cheap grapes from Chile available at the local market in winter for those on a limited budget. I don't care about nuclear capabilities in part of Persia because I trust that those I trust will take care of that responsibility well while recognizing the complexities of an ecumenopolis that treats all members of our species as members of our species.
If you teach hate or practice hatred you get what you want on a personal level you never imagined. I won't tolerate your homemade megalomania. I'm not after your family or your colleagues. They have their own chance for species' preservation talk/response. One person suggested we take all those who teach hate, give them lobotomies and put them on display like the old days of empires that put their enemies' head on pikes. I'm not an eye-for-an-eye practitioner. I'm willing to see you change your ways toward getting us to other planets and galaxies as good citizens of the universe.
My goal is not specific to one subculture. My goal is specific to our species. Our species is dependent on this planet. I'll tolerate a lot to see us see the same thing. But I'm not immortal. I'm impatient even though I know my goal is relatively eternal. I trust those who'll live after I'm gone to keep us moving on. I may not reach my goal in my lifetime but my goal is not my goal. It's really yours that I'm taking care of while I'm here.
A nuclear weapon is the result of concentrated juice in the form of engineering and science. We have tested nuclear weaponry and we have put nuclear weaponry to use in times of war. Nuclear power is a diplomatic tool used wisely. How many of us are wise enough to put the power of a nuclear bomb in our thumbprint? Answer: not a single one of us. We ALL own the nuclear weaponry of our species. The responsibility belongs to the person scraping a dry desert for seeds or water. The responsibility belongs to the leader loved by billions all over the world.
And then there's those persons or that group with hundreds of millions of dollars to spend on nuclear weaponry but no land-based political entity to hold them to responsibility or fear of reprisal. The barrier to market entry is a curious phenomenon. The "too big to fail" organizations want high artificial barriers to protect their turf. We've argued and made fun of the barrier to enter the nuclear arms race.
I'm not worried about weapons of mass destruction. We've had them in one form or another all our lives. Masses of archers and flamethrowers, to name a two. I concern myself with the trigger finger owner(s).
Do you know how to play golf? Do you know anyone who's hit a hole in one? Can you figure out the percentage of hooks and slices you've made versus perfect shots down the middle of the fairway? Can you now imagine every ball you hit was the intended aim of the diplomatic policy of owning a nuclear weapon arsenal? Increasing ground troop numbers because you can't just drop an H-bomb on Afghanistan and call it a day. Sacrificing three people because you don't want to use alleged spies as playing cards in the game of who gets to claim the status of a nuclear weapon class country. Willing to play along with North Korea because China's making more profits in the commercial world.
It's okay to lose sleep playing video games because someone else is losing sleep playing simultaneous games of Life, Monopoly, poker and chess, the special "football" and security codes nearby.
We're a young species only once. We have thousands of generations to go to grow up. Sure, we have one life to live on this planet, but when you look at what we've dug up and built out of the origins of our species and truly understand that your life only matters when your species does, your importance to yourself and others grows in leaps and bounds. I'm just beginning to understand and I'm amazed at the immense difference it's made in my life. My life in one hand, including aches and pains and mistakes and triumphs, the rearrangement of a piece of the universe. The rest of the universe in the other hand, with a universe-wide, nearly-infinite time of history to be seen. I'm glad to say I've been a part of it with you.
Four titles: "Henry V," "Falling Down," "Stranded," "Survival Under Atomic Attack"
Can you imagine a group of people perpetually maintaining the illusion of a superiour group that is outside time and not subject to any one subject except that its subjects take turns subjecting subjects to subjective analysis and rule? Yeah, then there's all the parts about them creating enmity for enemies to justify the enemy-fighting forces. Why be Don King when you can be donned king? Or chained to Cheney's LBJ-like rise to master Chen style tai chi chuan, Jack Ryan minus the Hollywood hairstyle.
A mask is still a mask. A Department of the Army pamphlet, No. 20-111, dated February 1951, is still just as informational:
"To be more specific, a modern atomic bomb can do heavy damage to houses and buildings roughly 2 miles away. But doubling its power will extend the range of damage to only about 2-1/2 miles. In the same way, if there were a bomb 100 times as powerful, it would reach out only a little more than 4-1/2, not 100 times as far.Some people call golf a good walk spoiled. Well, you can see many a situation that'll spoil a good walk. A person with a personal agenda that's unfriendly. A leader who wants to throw bodies into a bottomless pit of a firefight. A leaking spacesuit on Mars.
"And remember: All these calculations of your chances of survival assume that you have absolutely no advance warning of the attack.
"Just like fire bombs and ordinary high explosives, atomic weapons cause most of their death and damage by blast and heat. So first let's look at a few things you can do to escape these two dangers."
When I was a small boy, my parents took me to visit my grandparents down in south Florida. We'd spend part of the time with them going to an amusement park up the road. I remember the amusement park for its packet of tickets with an alphabetic order my parents'd use in conjunction with our good behaviour, rewarding us with E-ticket rides. My favourite ride was the Haunted Mansion. I was fascinated by the special effects and the thoughts of hidden passages and ways to make things that go bump in the night.
We visited the park many times in my youth and we kids'd collect souvenirs during our trips. My alltime favourite souvenir was a secret panel chest with parquet-style inlaid wood. Because of that souvenir, I collect small wooden boxes with sliding drawers visibly hidden by woodgrain cuts. I had lost the WDW chest long ago and guess I've collected the boxes in a way we all try to relive our youth, Rosebud-style.
Outside, the atmospheric turbulence of HRH Ida plays one of my favourite rusted gutter tunes. You've heard me play it once - drip, plop, pour, drop - since I'm not a musician, I won't repeat myself. I trust your imagination for recreating a cool rain, leftover yellow leaves and bare redbud limbs.
I immersed myself in the local culture to see the effect of global-level decisionmaking. I wanted to hold a multicultural plan for the people in one hand and shake the hand of someone I know who's not able to put food on the table with the other. I admit it's a matter of trust. It's the tale of "pass the whisper" at a children's party that teaches me the distrust I hold for being at the top of an ivory tower or inside a warroom and knowing what's going on.
We all come from somewhere. We're all going somewhere. We can't count to seven billion fast enough to capture all the people alive in a single moment. Death and birth crashing onto the sandy shore too fast too see the reshaped sand grain and the shifting sand dunes in one eye.
Despite what we believe, we are an ecumenopolis. We always have been. We always will be here on this planet. We effect one another and affect one another all the time. We'll continue to be who we are because we don't change overnight. Not very easily. We're social creatures who don't always socialise well enough to be socially acceptable or responsible socially.
Fear of the unknown and the thrill of danger make haunted mansions popular and titles like "Henry V," "Falling Down," "Stranded," and "Survival Under Atomic Attack" possible. Every member of our species practices life uniquely although within macrosystem categories.
We want those who can translate one style of life into subcategories without blinking an eye or revealing why. Those who practice their subcategory to perfection do not want or need to know the existence of their subcategory's translation to other lifestyles, unless we want to prevent detrimental behaviours between two subgroups (which can be within the same subcategory, two different subcategories or crossed between major categories, etc., and so on, with more complex-sounding gobbledygook/claptrap here to sound official. [insert smiley face]).
How does one take life seriously and laugh at life at the same time? One laughs at life and takes death seriously at the same time. Comedy and Tragedy. Life and Death. Friend and Enemy. Yin and Yang. Positive and negative. Health and sickness. Opposites with no opposites because opposites attract.
I hold the universe on one flake of skin on the end of my last finger. On the next finger, the Milky Way galaxy. On the next finger, the solar system. On the forefinger, the planet Earth. On my thumb, my thumbprint. I hold my hand up and make the universal sign of nonthreatening peace. I roll my fingers up and make a fist. Power. Strength. The universe connected to my oily thumbprint.
What's the old saying about it's hard to make a fist when you're shaking someone's hand? If Iran wants to try three hikers as spies, then I can find ways to retaliate without bringing the news media into the picture. If you really want to trade the lives of three people for what I have to give you, then I won't stop you. But it's a path I don't want to take. Reality is only seven letters. The truth is whatever we want to write about. I want my easy-to-transport, cheap grapes from Chile available at the local market in winter for those on a limited budget. I don't care about nuclear capabilities in part of Persia because I trust that those I trust will take care of that responsibility well while recognizing the complexities of an ecumenopolis that treats all members of our species as members of our species.
If you teach hate or practice hatred you get what you want on a personal level you never imagined. I won't tolerate your homemade megalomania. I'm not after your family or your colleagues. They have their own chance for species' preservation talk/response. One person suggested we take all those who teach hate, give them lobotomies and put them on display like the old days of empires that put their enemies' head on pikes. I'm not an eye-for-an-eye practitioner. I'm willing to see you change your ways toward getting us to other planets and galaxies as good citizens of the universe.
My goal is not specific to one subculture. My goal is specific to our species. Our species is dependent on this planet. I'll tolerate a lot to see us see the same thing. But I'm not immortal. I'm impatient even though I know my goal is relatively eternal. I trust those who'll live after I'm gone to keep us moving on. I may not reach my goal in my lifetime but my goal is not my goal. It's really yours that I'm taking care of while I'm here.
A nuclear weapon is the result of concentrated juice in the form of engineering and science. We have tested nuclear weaponry and we have put nuclear weaponry to use in times of war. Nuclear power is a diplomatic tool used wisely. How many of us are wise enough to put the power of a nuclear bomb in our thumbprint? Answer: not a single one of us. We ALL own the nuclear weaponry of our species. The responsibility belongs to the person scraping a dry desert for seeds or water. The responsibility belongs to the leader loved by billions all over the world.
And then there's those persons or that group with hundreds of millions of dollars to spend on nuclear weaponry but no land-based political entity to hold them to responsibility or fear of reprisal. The barrier to market entry is a curious phenomenon. The "too big to fail" organizations want high artificial barriers to protect their turf. We've argued and made fun of the barrier to enter the nuclear arms race.
I'm not worried about weapons of mass destruction. We've had them in one form or another all our lives. Masses of archers and flamethrowers, to name a two. I concern myself with the trigger finger owner(s).
Do you know how to play golf? Do you know anyone who's hit a hole in one? Can you figure out the percentage of hooks and slices you've made versus perfect shots down the middle of the fairway? Can you now imagine every ball you hit was the intended aim of the diplomatic policy of owning a nuclear weapon arsenal? Increasing ground troop numbers because you can't just drop an H-bomb on Afghanistan and call it a day. Sacrificing three people because you don't want to use alleged spies as playing cards in the game of who gets to claim the status of a nuclear weapon class country. Willing to play along with North Korea because China's making more profits in the commercial world.
It's okay to lose sleep playing video games because someone else is losing sleep playing simultaneous games of Life, Monopoly, poker and chess, the special "football" and security codes nearby.
We're a young species only once. We have thousands of generations to go to grow up. Sure, we have one life to live on this planet, but when you look at what we've dug up and built out of the origins of our species and truly understand that your life only matters when your species does, your importance to yourself and others grows in leaps and bounds. I'm just beginning to understand and I'm amazed at the immense difference it's made in my life. My life in one hand, including aches and pains and mistakes and triumphs, the rearrangement of a piece of the universe. The rest of the universe in the other hand, with a universe-wide, nearly-infinite time of history to be seen. I'm glad to say I've been a part of it with you.
09 November 2009
Warm Weather Wren
Maple leaves the colour of bananas. A wren a few feet from my head building a nest in the garage. Tree limbs trimmed to a uniform height as if by deer.
Linear thinking. Imagining a product design while walking to the other side of the box, hidden in the box walls' shadows. Feature creep. Perfecting the design.
Sweeping the driveway of dry leaves, fingers of a hurricane not too far away. Not too far? As opposed to what? Compared to whom?
An unknown bird, like a large black swallow, a few trees away from a redheaded woodpecker. My version of twitter much more appealing - titmouse tweets.
Sitting in Big River last night, using a beer coaster to play with their logo - "Rib Giver, Grilling and Brewing Workers Since 1994" - Vanessa and her CV in play. Five years to settle a car smashup lawsuit. Had to repeat her ten-grand vacation (i.e., finishing her college degree in the second round). More of a college veteran than a college alumna. Decided life in the cubicle next to those having heart attacks was not the last view of life she wanted to have. I'm there with you, sister. You've got what it takes to see life outside the box. But more on that later...
Overheard conversations on the weekend:
Sentences outside of metronomic rhythms. Inside the box. Thinking... nonalliteratively. Iteratively.
We know the politics of dancing. We see the slate of our dance cards. We scan the dance floor for partners even if we don't dance. Chickadees and finches sharing the same trees. Us sharing the same roads.
Creative thinking is not thinking creatively. Discovering fire is not inventing the fireplace.
Leaves falling in bunches like bananas. Leaves the colour of...what? Not red. Not orange. Not peach. Not salmon. Not, not, not! The opposite of not what? Burnt orange? Close. Light rust? Maybe. A colour repeated over and over, fall to fall to fall.
How many times have I been "bitten" by a mosquito, tick or spider and turned into an agar-filled petri dish for bloody parasites?
How many times have I seen the solution to one problem while contemplating a problem somewhere else? Why do people not write poems and odes to poison ivy leaves in fall?
Business consultants should work, at least partly, on commission, their "guaranteed solutions" dependent on their customers' success. Politicians should not be financially rewarded for seeking or achieving election, their income dependent on society's success, success a matter of public whim.
The sound of squirrels chasing each other through the leaves. The click of a mimosa leaf falling apart when it hits the ground. My belly sticking out from typing too much and not exercising enough.
Holding a chunk of agate and seeing the volcanic history of our land. Knowing at once what you see through your eyes as I see what you see with my thoughts. History is not the formation and the reformation of political entities. History is outside our time. Being a millionaire or billionaire (by dollar standards) is nothing. Being a potentate or president is temporary and forgotten in another era. Knowing, in full conscious action, that what you do is all you've got, robber baron, monopoly winner or factory worker.
A chipmunk at my feet, being chased by another. More unknown birds migrating nearby. If you aren't successful right now in this very moment, you're never successful, no matter what you say or what or who you say you own.
Vanessa got my business attention because she sees life with no box. She is alive in the moment. She sells without selling because she gives without receiving and gets back more than she can repay. A provincial life is providential when one moves in deliberate steps unknowingly. Monica taught me that. Ann-Marie is reteaching me. Babli is teaching me anew. Julia and Jennifer use poetry and thankfulness to express the same thought. JJ keeps my moral compass pointed at a right angle because solutions are rarely straight ahead.
What is the wasp digging into the leaves beside me for?
I just gave you the solution to a problem. It's not a riddle. There's no rhyme or reason. You hold it in your hand when you hold out your palm. The squirrel and the chipmunk and the wasp and woodpecker already know what's going on.
We want the housecat to think inside the box within the box. How many of us are housecats thinking we're mustangs? A maverick with a saddle or tethered to a carriage? How many of us are headed to the glue factory before we ever started our lives?
We don't live in a box. We live on the outside of a teetering sphere. Teetotaling and totaling tees. I'm successful because of you. I'm successful in this moment because we can think outside of the realm of influence that ties us down. Providing solutions rather than adding to problems.
Of course, we do whatever we want to do, comfort zone or demilitarised zone. Freedom is what the moment is all about. Freedom to be and free to be with others as we please. I freely choose to spend my free time with you. Wanna be free with me? You already are. You're you. See you when you see me.
Linear thinking. Imagining a product design while walking to the other side of the box, hidden in the box walls' shadows. Feature creep. Perfecting the design.
Sweeping the driveway of dry leaves, fingers of a hurricane not too far away. Not too far? As opposed to what? Compared to whom?
An unknown bird, like a large black swallow, a few trees away from a redheaded woodpecker. My version of twitter much more appealing - titmouse tweets.
Sitting in Big River last night, using a beer coaster to play with their logo - "Rib Giver, Grilling and Brewing Workers Since 1994" - Vanessa and her CV in play. Five years to settle a car smashup lawsuit. Had to repeat her ten-grand vacation (i.e., finishing her college degree in the second round). More of a college veteran than a college alumna. Decided life in the cubicle next to those having heart attacks was not the last view of life she wanted to have. I'm there with you, sister. You've got what it takes to see life outside the box. But more on that later...
Overheard conversations on the weekend:
- A group of folks faking a conversation about who had spent more time in jail
- A young woman deciding to completely change her MySpace page
- A young man who eats Krispy Kreme doughnuts in two big bites
- A homeless man bumming money from bar patrons in order to buy a beer but refused service because of his patron-bugging habits
- A set of Firestones and nice rims in hell instead of hellfire and brimstone - a comic street preacher
Sentences outside of metronomic rhythms. Inside the box. Thinking... nonalliteratively. Iteratively.
We know the politics of dancing. We see the slate of our dance cards. We scan the dance floor for partners even if we don't dance. Chickadees and finches sharing the same trees. Us sharing the same roads.
Creative thinking is not thinking creatively. Discovering fire is not inventing the fireplace.
Leaves falling in bunches like bananas. Leaves the colour of...what? Not red. Not orange. Not peach. Not salmon. Not, not, not! The opposite of not what? Burnt orange? Close. Light rust? Maybe. A colour repeated over and over, fall to fall to fall.
How many times have I been "bitten" by a mosquito, tick or spider and turned into an agar-filled petri dish for bloody parasites?
How many times have I seen the solution to one problem while contemplating a problem somewhere else? Why do people not write poems and odes to poison ivy leaves in fall?
Business consultants should work, at least partly, on commission, their "guaranteed solutions" dependent on their customers' success. Politicians should not be financially rewarded for seeking or achieving election, their income dependent on society's success, success a matter of public whim.
The sound of squirrels chasing each other through the leaves. The click of a mimosa leaf falling apart when it hits the ground. My belly sticking out from typing too much and not exercising enough.
Holding a chunk of agate and seeing the volcanic history of our land. Knowing at once what you see through your eyes as I see what you see with my thoughts. History is not the formation and the reformation of political entities. History is outside our time. Being a millionaire or billionaire (by dollar standards) is nothing. Being a potentate or president is temporary and forgotten in another era. Knowing, in full conscious action, that what you do is all you've got, robber baron, monopoly winner or factory worker.
A chipmunk at my feet, being chased by another. More unknown birds migrating nearby. If you aren't successful right now in this very moment, you're never successful, no matter what you say or what or who you say you own.
Vanessa got my business attention because she sees life with no box. She is alive in the moment. She sells without selling because she gives without receiving and gets back more than she can repay. A provincial life is providential when one moves in deliberate steps unknowingly. Monica taught me that. Ann-Marie is reteaching me. Babli is teaching me anew. Julia and Jennifer use poetry and thankfulness to express the same thought. JJ keeps my moral compass pointed at a right angle because solutions are rarely straight ahead.
What is the wasp digging into the leaves beside me for?
I just gave you the solution to a problem. It's not a riddle. There's no rhyme or reason. You hold it in your hand when you hold out your palm. The squirrel and the chipmunk and the wasp and woodpecker already know what's going on.
We want the housecat to think inside the box within the box. How many of us are housecats thinking we're mustangs? A maverick with a saddle or tethered to a carriage? How many of us are headed to the glue factory before we ever started our lives?
We don't live in a box. We live on the outside of a teetering sphere. Teetotaling and totaling tees. I'm successful because of you. I'm successful in this moment because we can think outside of the realm of influence that ties us down. Providing solutions rather than adding to problems.
Of course, we do whatever we want to do, comfort zone or demilitarised zone. Freedom is what the moment is all about. Freedom to be and free to be with others as we please. I freely choose to spend my free time with you. Wanna be free with me? You already are. You're you. See you when you see me.
08 November 2009
Ceremonial Ceramic
Sitting on the concrete futon. Watching accelerators. Feeling the crowd. Back in my hometown, cigars and cigarettes, trucks and SUVs, racecars and teenage drivers.
There's much to be said about not saying much. Avoiding versions of "to be." Asking what got me here and made me me. Who made me? Who's been made?
Hot dogs and hamburgers. Stadium seats and caramel-coloured sodas. 3/8ths of a mile in 15 seconds or so, around and around, bumping and scraping, pushing and smashing. Yellow light. Caution. Restarts and passes.
I was born not far from the smell of accelerant. Intoxicating. Invigorating. Inhabiting my bones. My DNA an engine for engines.
Joyce's "Dubliners" and Agee's scruffy little city. Me and the Model City. Infinitely shaken and shook, chasing the tail of Moebius, that side of Reedy Creek, men and women and their flying machines storming barns and looping reservoirs, flights by the pound long before Pal's made people LEAN in their business machinations.
Faces covered with soot and rubber marbles. Seven years of silence giving us the itch. Vines and bird droppings. Parking spaces and spaces for parking.
Two spots, two arenas. Local and international. FBS winners and UARA stars. Up in smoke and up in the air.
Fly from one to the other, one a parade of cars, another a band on parade T-ing up for the team, topping the rocky start for the season with a tiger-whipping.
J.C. (no, not that one), nearly perfect, whose mother thinks he IS a saint, hitting on all cylinders, like they say (but not like Larry's son setting records in the other K-town), putting up numbers that'll soon have agents calling secretly and offering their services. Stack the line and the missives and missiles permissively fly.
G.J. and other scout hunters grab the fruit flies, turf-tapping their way 'round the West-pressed bodies in disarray.
All's quiet on the front. A far-off refrain of "Mr.Grinch" frets the frets, $200 big ones riding hopes of fading, flickering images on the wall, grainy, grim tidings of humming bugs past Stewart's patrician, Shakespearean, Dickensian tale, or Scott's Georgian performance a farthing too pinched.
How do you stop protests? You feed the hungry. No, take that back. You stuff their mouths until their plump pusses purr with content of feline ferocity. Catnip and scratching posts and balls of yarn to keep them occupied, while you stuff your pockets with their debtors' credit card interest rates. Get them all in houses with mortgages not too heavy to break their backs but heavy enough to strap them to job-seeking occupations for office occupiers, manufacturing offshored and labored laws loosely-fitting the clothesmaking clothesless. Equalising capitalism for the masses. Those who hold a bag of coins in their hands rarely hold protest signs.
Don't ask for much and you don't get mulch. Words are not ovens and text not a scythe.
Joke about dying and die about joking. Laugh at prosperity and prosper at posterity. Give away all you've got so you can give away more. The more you give, the more you receive. The more you live in the moment, the more the moment lives in you.
The race to the moon is on but the Moon's not racing to you. In the meantime, plenty of races hold my attention while I hold yours - racecars and football and basketball - on track for winners all around. All aboard!
There's much to be said about not saying much. Avoiding versions of "to be." Asking what got me here and made me me. Who made me? Who's been made?
Hot dogs and hamburgers. Stadium seats and caramel-coloured sodas. 3/8ths of a mile in 15 seconds or so, around and around, bumping and scraping, pushing and smashing. Yellow light. Caution. Restarts and passes.
I was born not far from the smell of accelerant. Intoxicating. Invigorating. Inhabiting my bones. My DNA an engine for engines.
Joyce's "Dubliners" and Agee's scruffy little city. Me and the Model City. Infinitely shaken and shook, chasing the tail of Moebius, that side of Reedy Creek, men and women and their flying machines storming barns and looping reservoirs, flights by the pound long before Pal's made people LEAN in their business machinations.
Faces covered with soot and rubber marbles. Seven years of silence giving us the itch. Vines and bird droppings. Parking spaces and spaces for parking.
Two spots, two arenas. Local and international. FBS winners and UARA stars. Up in smoke and up in the air.
Fly from one to the other, one a parade of cars, another a band on parade T-ing up for the team, topping the rocky start for the season with a tiger-whipping.
J.C. (no, not that one), nearly perfect, whose mother thinks he IS a saint, hitting on all cylinders, like they say (but not like Larry's son setting records in the other K-town), putting up numbers that'll soon have agents calling secretly and offering their services. Stack the line and the missives and missiles permissively fly.
G.J. and other scout hunters grab the fruit flies, turf-tapping their way 'round the West-pressed bodies in disarray.
All's quiet on the front. A far-off refrain of "Mr.Grinch" frets the frets, $200 big ones riding hopes of fading, flickering images on the wall, grainy, grim tidings of humming bugs past Stewart's patrician, Shakespearean, Dickensian tale, or Scott's Georgian performance a farthing too pinched.
How do you stop protests? You feed the hungry. No, take that back. You stuff their mouths until their plump pusses purr with content of feline ferocity. Catnip and scratching posts and balls of yarn to keep them occupied, while you stuff your pockets with their debtors' credit card interest rates. Get them all in houses with mortgages not too heavy to break their backs but heavy enough to strap them to job-seeking occupations for office occupiers, manufacturing offshored and labored laws loosely-fitting the clothesmaking clothesless. Equalising capitalism for the masses. Those who hold a bag of coins in their hands rarely hold protest signs.
Don't ask for much and you don't get mulch. Words are not ovens and text not a scythe.
Joke about dying and die about joking. Laugh at prosperity and prosper at posterity. Give away all you've got so you can give away more. The more you give, the more you receive. The more you live in the moment, the more the moment lives in you.
The race to the moon is on but the Moon's not racing to you. In the meantime, plenty of races hold my attention while I hold yours - racecars and football and basketball - on track for winners all around. All aboard!
06 November 2009
C'est, what have you heard?
Mais oui. Mais non. Je ne sais pas.
I've been reading a text by Victor Hugo, the account, fictionalised, of the events of the period after the French Revolution. Names, names, and mo' names.
A simple account with many ledger entries. Guillotin and Robespierre closer friends than one would have imagined. Marat. Many others. Louis XVI a head of his time.
When one has given one's life, one has no debt to pay. Others may rummage through one's chest for more, or pull pages from one's family tree. Pourquoi? Or a pourquoi story?
Emptiness. Empty nest. Elliott Ness. Just a pile of sounds. Maintenant. Maintenance. Not even close. Paris and Moscow on better terms than Estonia and Leningrad?
You can't tell the people that their rising unemployment is part of the numbers racket called economic cycles. They can't buy theories when they want gas for their guzzler to go buy bread with their bread. If you rob Peter to pay Paul, Mary won't be around to sing harmony.
But these are superficial observations. I'm looking at what you're not. I'm seeing what I can't hear.
Sashimi at noon? Maybe later, the sushi orders backing up. Mo' tea. I'm floating. While my miso so settling, I talk to a pardner about rustling up some business on the range.
I see Putin hold a tank of natural gas in his hand and ask what can I do to help get that on a tanker truck or shooting down a pipe when really I need to ask what's the alternative. Sleight of hand. Look at a data center and see an orange grove in Brasil. Look at an asphalt paving crew and see a sewing factory in Malaysia. Je m'appelle Rick. Et vous?
The desert, an island and a deck of cards. Eurovision. A watch. A ceramic cup.
My goal is getting people on board an orbiting hotel. Their goal is getting tickets for a revolution.
I write because I have words that sprout from the end of my fingers. I make no cents so I make no sense. I value Babli even though I don't know if she's real. We take the virtual for granite and don't have our marbles.
Blow sand in people's eyes and see what they do. Put up a smoke screen and watch from around the screen door. There's where you find what you ought to do with what they automatically do first.
I'm just an observer, giving words a thrill ride for the sake of the species I call our own. I detour off the bypass to find the entrance to the exit for the shortcut. Then, the destination is behind me and I know where I'm going. It's what the Book of the Future told me to do yesterday when I was still looking for tomorrow. Every moment is the history of the past and the future. Only when you live only in the moment will you only know only. Be providential. Be colloquial. Be wrong. Be right.
Scatter, collect and then read the I Ching. You are the fable of you. You are the untruth, the fib, the lie of what you were. We live in the moment. There is no past. There is no future. There is what we do. I am doing this right now but not what I did a sentence ago.
I enjoy being here because I believe I am the only one writing this although facts to the contrary tell me otherwise in the past. Right now, I am the only one reading this. Is there a line that separates my writing this from my reading this in the moment? Where in my thoughts does the writing take place? Where in my time does the reading take place?
Why do I write a lot of nonsense when there's work to be done to move our species to the next moment? I write nonsense to scatter the wind, to tear down the walls of previously painted moments, to shred the fabric of time which does not exist. Then, I live in the moment.
Therefore, my moments are tearing down the past and building up the future and living as if the moment is all I have. I am not who I was so I don't need to feed the thoughts of a previous self or selves or ancestors or descendants or debts/credits on a ledger. This moment is all I've got. And now this next moment is all I've got. We see moments like "Memento" or other savage chicken jokes and almost see what we're supposed to not see that we're looking at. I almost get what I'm saying but the blinders haven't completely fallen off and I'm still chomping at the bit.
I am the only one who has to get me and live in my moment. I live in our moment so I'm trying to get you while I live with the rest of us for our species. Escher and Marquez, Suzuki and Porsche. Sentimental sentiment sentimentality sediment. Stretch your thoughts and Silly Putty laughs back.
When I can write sonic nonsense in more than a dozen languages that uses phonics and memes and inside jokes that read backwards and forwards and sideways and all about, I will have found the person I'm looking into the past at my mirror image for. And then our species will be the Book of the Future's Book of the Future in the moment. Humour is serious business. That's what I just figured out. And now I'm in the next moment, free of the past.
I've been reading a text by Victor Hugo, the account, fictionalised, of the events of the period after the French Revolution. Names, names, and mo' names.
A simple account with many ledger entries. Guillotin and Robespierre closer friends than one would have imagined. Marat. Many others. Louis XVI a head of his time.
When one has given one's life, one has no debt to pay. Others may rummage through one's chest for more, or pull pages from one's family tree. Pourquoi? Or a pourquoi story?
Emptiness. Empty nest. Elliott Ness. Just a pile of sounds. Maintenant. Maintenance. Not even close. Paris and Moscow on better terms than Estonia and Leningrad?
You can't tell the people that their rising unemployment is part of the numbers racket called economic cycles. They can't buy theories when they want gas for their guzzler to go buy bread with their bread. If you rob Peter to pay Paul, Mary won't be around to sing harmony.
But these are superficial observations. I'm looking at what you're not. I'm seeing what I can't hear.
Sashimi at noon? Maybe later, the sushi orders backing up. Mo' tea. I'm floating. While my miso so settling, I talk to a pardner about rustling up some business on the range.
I see Putin hold a tank of natural gas in his hand and ask what can I do to help get that on a tanker truck or shooting down a pipe when really I need to ask what's the alternative. Sleight of hand. Look at a data center and see an orange grove in Brasil. Look at an asphalt paving crew and see a sewing factory in Malaysia. Je m'appelle Rick. Et vous?
The desert, an island and a deck of cards. Eurovision. A watch. A ceramic cup.
My goal is getting people on board an orbiting hotel. Their goal is getting tickets for a revolution.
I write because I have words that sprout from the end of my fingers. I make no cents so I make no sense. I value Babli even though I don't know if she's real. We take the virtual for granite and don't have our marbles.
Blow sand in people's eyes and see what they do. Put up a smoke screen and watch from around the screen door. There's where you find what you ought to do with what they automatically do first.
I'm just an observer, giving words a thrill ride for the sake of the species I call our own. I detour off the bypass to find the entrance to the exit for the shortcut. Then, the destination is behind me and I know where I'm going. It's what the Book of the Future told me to do yesterday when I was still looking for tomorrow. Every moment is the history of the past and the future. Only when you live only in the moment will you only know only. Be providential. Be colloquial. Be wrong. Be right.
Scatter, collect and then read the I Ching. You are the fable of you. You are the untruth, the fib, the lie of what you were. We live in the moment. There is no past. There is no future. There is what we do. I am doing this right now but not what I did a sentence ago.
I enjoy being here because I believe I am the only one writing this although facts to the contrary tell me otherwise in the past. Right now, I am the only one reading this. Is there a line that separates my writing this from my reading this in the moment? Where in my thoughts does the writing take place? Where in my time does the reading take place?
Why do I write a lot of nonsense when there's work to be done to move our species to the next moment? I write nonsense to scatter the wind, to tear down the walls of previously painted moments, to shred the fabric of time which does not exist. Then, I live in the moment.
Therefore, my moments are tearing down the past and building up the future and living as if the moment is all I have. I am not who I was so I don't need to feed the thoughts of a previous self or selves or ancestors or descendants or debts/credits on a ledger. This moment is all I've got. And now this next moment is all I've got. We see moments like "Memento" or other savage chicken jokes and almost see what we're supposed to not see that we're looking at. I almost get what I'm saying but the blinders haven't completely fallen off and I'm still chomping at the bit.
I am the only one who has to get me and live in my moment. I live in our moment so I'm trying to get you while I live with the rest of us for our species. Escher and Marquez, Suzuki and Porsche. Sentimental sentiment sentimentality sediment. Stretch your thoughts and Silly Putty laughs back.
When I can write sonic nonsense in more than a dozen languages that uses phonics and memes and inside jokes that read backwards and forwards and sideways and all about, I will have found the person I'm looking into the past at my mirror image for. And then our species will be the Book of the Future's Book of the Future in the moment. Humour is serious business. That's what I just figured out. And now I'm in the next moment, free of the past.
05 November 2009
Inspiro and Furry Lease
How do you get from hear to they're? Do you synonymise your weigh around? Maybe your antonym, your mother's sister, has an answer, two?
I have used a variety of keyboards to make myself heard. 88 ivory keys. Three-octave plastic keys. Matias half-keyboard. The basic rows of QWERTY chicklets. Do you find yourself drawn to a particular type? Have you fallen in love with your thumbing so much that you bought a thumbing keyboard for your PC or laptop?
I don't think outside the box. I riff on the tissue box called my head. The landscape thinks for me and I write down its rhythms. Spiro Agnew. Wynton Marsalis. Lorca. Mao. Paine. Nancy. Soros. Beethoven. L'il Abner. Little Orphan Annie. Oprah. McNamara. Drew.
The web of life has no filaments, no silk threads. Plants don't see the breeze that spreads their pollen.
What if the Pope and the Dalai Lama toured China together? What if Warren Buffett and Mahmoud Ahmadinejad toured Israel together?
The magnifying glass of these "modern" times focuses a beam of light on a dry leaf. I can't stay on one spot for too long or else the leaf will smolder and burn. The pages of history are tinder to the touch.
Language-specific jokes don't translate well. Thus, I wander in and out of these hieroglyph remnants, posing questions, posing and posturing. Suppose. Support hose.
Denying doesn't stop the past from existing. Recording doesn't stop the past from being distorted. Thus, I wander in and out of time, history no placeholder for this ambulatory book.
In business, I see connections in "Working Girl," WSJ, FT, Pollution Engineering, T. Ferriss, Atatürk, Tata, Slim, Dubai and Shanghai. Rely on devoted hobbyists to tell the true story. Not experts expert in retaining their titles, no matter who confers them.
The web between my thumb and forefinger. The web between my eyes and keyboard. The web blowing in the breeze, building vacuums under the eaves. Invisible. In plain sight.
We connect because we want to connect. We run into each other because we're running.
I don't buy because you sell. I try because I want to see what it does. Is what it does what it is? Is a working stiff stiff from working or dead on its feet? Will Marsalis premiere a piece like John Adams' Chamber Symphony or George Gershwin's Rhapsody In Blue? Will rail traffic transform because of Buffett's interest or will Buffett's fortunes change because of commercial transportation transformations?
I have a new box of pencils. Time to read more adventures in the Book of the Future!
I have used a variety of keyboards to make myself heard. 88 ivory keys. Three-octave plastic keys. Matias half-keyboard. The basic rows of QWERTY chicklets. Do you find yourself drawn to a particular type? Have you fallen in love with your thumbing so much that you bought a thumbing keyboard for your PC or laptop?
I don't think outside the box. I riff on the tissue box called my head. The landscape thinks for me and I write down its rhythms. Spiro Agnew. Wynton Marsalis. Lorca. Mao. Paine. Nancy. Soros. Beethoven. L'il Abner. Little Orphan Annie. Oprah. McNamara. Drew.
The web of life has no filaments, no silk threads. Plants don't see the breeze that spreads their pollen.
What if the Pope and the Dalai Lama toured China together? What if Warren Buffett and Mahmoud Ahmadinejad toured Israel together?
The magnifying glass of these "modern" times focuses a beam of light on a dry leaf. I can't stay on one spot for too long or else the leaf will smolder and burn. The pages of history are tinder to the touch.
Language-specific jokes don't translate well. Thus, I wander in and out of these hieroglyph remnants, posing questions, posing and posturing. Suppose. Support hose.
Denying doesn't stop the past from existing. Recording doesn't stop the past from being distorted. Thus, I wander in and out of time, history no placeholder for this ambulatory book.
In business, I see connections in "Working Girl," WSJ, FT, Pollution Engineering, T. Ferriss, Atatürk, Tata, Slim, Dubai and Shanghai. Rely on devoted hobbyists to tell the true story. Not experts expert in retaining their titles, no matter who confers them.
The web between my thumb and forefinger. The web between my eyes and keyboard. The web blowing in the breeze, building vacuums under the eaves. Invisible. In plain sight.
We connect because we want to connect. We run into each other because we're running.
I don't buy because you sell. I try because I want to see what it does. Is what it does what it is? Is a working stiff stiff from working or dead on its feet? Will Marsalis premiere a piece like John Adams' Chamber Symphony or George Gershwin's Rhapsody In Blue? Will rail traffic transform because of Buffett's interest or will Buffett's fortunes change because of commercial transportation transformations?
I have a new box of pencils. Time to read more adventures in the Book of the Future!
04 November 2009
Herniated Innards
"Pa, why come we ain't taking no visitors?"
"Son, we got here, didn't we?"
"Ma, what's Pa talking about?"
"Boy, you better not be sassing your Pa."
"No'm. I'm just mighty confused, that's all."
"Son, some things ain't meant for us to know. We got here and now we ain't taking no visitors on account of there ain't no visitors for us to take in."
"Pa, that make no sense. We seen plenty of folks on the way here."
"Brother, them folks was being et by feller eaters. Remember?"
"I know, but if there's some folks being eaten, there's plenty of folks like us who ain't. Right, Pa?"
"Mama, you got an answer for them boys? I's tired of talking."
"Boys, your Pa knows plenty of things. But some things ain't worth saying. We is here and that's what counts. Now I know you want to play and all but we's got to spend some time sorting throu
"Son, we got here, didn't we?"
"Ma, what's Pa talking about?"
"Boy, you better not be sassing your Pa."
"No'm. I'm just mighty confused, that's all."
"Son, some things ain't meant for us to know. We got here and now we ain't taking no visitors on account of there ain't no visitors for us to take in."
"Pa, that make no sense. We seen plenty of folks on the way here."
"Brother, them folks was being et by feller eaters. Remember?"
"I know, but if there's some folks being eaten, there's plenty of folks like us who ain't. Right, Pa?"
"Mama, you got an answer for them boys? I's tired of talking."
"Boys, your Pa knows plenty of things. But some things ain't worth saying. We is here and that's what counts. Now I know you want to play and all but we's got to spend some time sorting throu