Scribe
These are the things that matter. They can be given permanence, they can be given meaning, and they can be given power. Of course, they would be lost without him, but he would be in that same boat without them. This is a life, tucked off to the side as if of little import, but always kept close at hand. A little gray man of no consequence tucked in clothes that bring him no special attention, though he may be surrounded by royal finery or legal garb, his world has no need of such gaudy detail. Wire-rims glasses serve as his jewelry and his sign of station is only in the quality of his tool. His is the world of words and quotes, the historical details that track our movements, passions, and resolutions, and then possess the ability to confine or to free us. As if specially plucked from the twilight zone, these men misfit well in the theatrical environment we construct, and help tie down the determinations of thought. The very words they use give them purpose, and thus a scribe is given reason to be.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
See, you don't even need Fox News.
Graphic
I don’t intend to bring people down today, but sometimes when you start playing with words you don’t always get a positive spin on the subject matter.
We don’t always need much, sometimes we get a full blown image, but often just a hint is enough. Painful as it may be to look at images where all is laid bear, sometimes more disturbing are the images where more is implied than given away. Thus we stop and for a brief moment our imagination can take the offensive. Shadows and darkness and the absence of certainty pull at the frayed edges of fear and beckon forth demons long since put away. A desire for completion and knowledge pries open the bedroom door of our childhood, and for that brief instant we are submerged in the sea of our own secret and unloved thoughts. While physical details pour haphazardly like poorly stacked toys onto our bedroom floor, the curtains and the furniture take on the vestiges of discontent and maleficence that we paint on the face of the frighteningly foreign. No inhuman atrocity is far, no monster or madman can be kept away, and every abomination of nature has its eyes upon us. It is all a little too close for comfort, when these graphic pictures unfold themselves in one’s own mind.
I don’t intend to bring people down today, but sometimes when you start playing with words you don’t always get a positive spin on the subject matter.
We don’t always need much, sometimes we get a full blown image, but often just a hint is enough. Painful as it may be to look at images where all is laid bear, sometimes more disturbing are the images where more is implied than given away. Thus we stop and for a brief moment our imagination can take the offensive. Shadows and darkness and the absence of certainty pull at the frayed edges of fear and beckon forth demons long since put away. A desire for completion and knowledge pries open the bedroom door of our childhood, and for that brief instant we are submerged in the sea of our own secret and unloved thoughts. While physical details pour haphazardly like poorly stacked toys onto our bedroom floor, the curtains and the furniture take on the vestiges of discontent and maleficence that we paint on the face of the frighteningly foreign. No inhuman atrocity is far, no monster or madman can be kept away, and every abomination of nature has its eyes upon us. It is all a little too close for comfort, when these graphic pictures unfold themselves in one’s own mind.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Because today is different too.
Iteration
Regular as clockwork, the machinations of the universe tick away, from slow moving pendulum galaxies to the imperceptibly rapid electron vibrations. We keep moving, at least for the time being, until at last we wind down to the tune of entropy. All clocks are really programs, written in a vastly different language than those typed by keyboard. Whirling gears and twisting springs are all just if thens and for loops, marching down to specific outputs that can be written in water pumps or clock faces. It is just taking away a level of abstraction that we often forget is even there. The funny thing is, as the planetary gears turn iterative functions click over. The sun rises and sets smoothly with its daily iteration, the earth annually revolves around the sun, centuries, periods, and eras tick over. Each iteration brings its own change, some more dramatic and profound than others.
Regular as clockwork, the machinations of the universe tick away, from slow moving pendulum galaxies to the imperceptibly rapid electron vibrations. We keep moving, at least for the time being, until at last we wind down to the tune of entropy. All clocks are really programs, written in a vastly different language than those typed by keyboard. Whirling gears and twisting springs are all just if thens and for loops, marching down to specific outputs that can be written in water pumps or clock faces. It is just taking away a level of abstraction that we often forget is even there. The funny thing is, as the planetary gears turn iterative functions click over. The sun rises and sets smoothly with its daily iteration, the earth annually revolves around the sun, centuries, periods, and eras tick over. Each iteration brings its own change, some more dramatic and profound than others.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Well, it isn't Community Chest.
Chance
Every action has a reaction and thus an outcome. Well, outcome isn’t exactly correct, more like outcomes. There always seems to be more outcomes than what we expect, as if each action moved out in rippling patterns instigating reactions of their own. A bit like little rain drop waves, interfering with one another. The outcomes are many and varied, but on the initial side of the cause-effect divide they are hidden, a select few of the many trees making up the forest. Whether for better or for worse, action occurs, and our bodies lunge forward, our fingers grope to cross the divide and grasp the branches of our desire. But crossing the gap is no small feat, and there is no guarantee of where we land or which waves we produce. Still, with possibility, there is hope, and even if we don’t reach our initial choice, maybe we can come close enough. It is undeniably optimistic, but then all hope is. I suppose that sometimes all we need to take the step across the divide is possibility; we’re just looking until we see that we might have a chance.
Every action has a reaction and thus an outcome. Well, outcome isn’t exactly correct, more like outcomes. There always seems to be more outcomes than what we expect, as if each action moved out in rippling patterns instigating reactions of their own. A bit like little rain drop waves, interfering with one another. The outcomes are many and varied, but on the initial side of the cause-effect divide they are hidden, a select few of the many trees making up the forest. Whether for better or for worse, action occurs, and our bodies lunge forward, our fingers grope to cross the divide and grasp the branches of our desire. But crossing the gap is no small feat, and there is no guarantee of where we land or which waves we produce. Still, with possibility, there is hope, and even if we don’t reach our initial choice, maybe we can come close enough. It is undeniably optimistic, but then all hope is. I suppose that sometimes all we need to take the step across the divide is possibility; we’re just looking until we see that we might have a chance.
Monday, January 26, 2009
What is spin anyway?
Pulse
With each beat, a light pulses. Bright, almost white, at its center, fading through hues of Cerenkov blue to the darkness of space at its edges, the light briefly brightens and then dims slightly, rhythmically speaking to itself. Each beat quickly spreads out from the center, echoing into the void as if on the other side some celestial being absentmindedly was casting drops of water into the center of a pool whose surface was invisible to those of us within its body. With every vibration of the light, a low hum spreads like the brightness of the light itself, and then fades to just below our level of hearing as the light dims. Is this what the heart of the universe looks like, a big bang remnant softly spinning, pulsating, and humming to itself with little regard to any observation? Perhaps this is the quark gluon mix, so small as to make color meaningless, infinitely repeated across the empty reaches of space and within our bodies, beating in and out of phase less in conversation than in a universal song of being. Starting at the edges where the blue cannot be distinguished from the black, purple creeps in, spreading throughout the light, sizes and sentiments change and this ultraviolet mood swing gives way to a dull and moody red. Still, the beats continue and the light has taken on a more familiar shape, and the rhythm matches our own. The vibrations are within now; the sound is the blood rushing through our veins and arteries, the pulse our own inner life. But it is more than blood and more than atoms, an echoing pulse of the dance of existence as we swing about, hand in hand on the dance floor of creation.
With each beat, a light pulses. Bright, almost white, at its center, fading through hues of Cerenkov blue to the darkness of space at its edges, the light briefly brightens and then dims slightly, rhythmically speaking to itself. Each beat quickly spreads out from the center, echoing into the void as if on the other side some celestial being absentmindedly was casting drops of water into the center of a pool whose surface was invisible to those of us within its body. With every vibration of the light, a low hum spreads like the brightness of the light itself, and then fades to just below our level of hearing as the light dims. Is this what the heart of the universe looks like, a big bang remnant softly spinning, pulsating, and humming to itself with little regard to any observation? Perhaps this is the quark gluon mix, so small as to make color meaningless, infinitely repeated across the empty reaches of space and within our bodies, beating in and out of phase less in conversation than in a universal song of being. Starting at the edges where the blue cannot be distinguished from the black, purple creeps in, spreading throughout the light, sizes and sentiments change and this ultraviolet mood swing gives way to a dull and moody red. Still, the beats continue and the light has taken on a more familiar shape, and the rhythm matches our own. The vibrations are within now; the sound is the blood rushing through our veins and arteries, the pulse our own inner life. But it is more than blood and more than atoms, an echoing pulse of the dance of existence as we swing about, hand in hand on the dance floor of creation.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
For the record
Record
With the development of memory we kicked off a struggle of preservation, though different than what was done before. We’ve been preserving time. From painting hunts on walls to videos of a fat kid who thinks he has a light saber, we’ve been keeping these moments preserved. Amongst our many efforts to preserve a moment in time, we developed wide, flat(ish) discs of vinyl kept in paper and cardboard sleeves.
These moments are worlds into themselves, placed down on rotating tables, platforms propping up geocentric universes and setting in motion their own days and nights. As the world turns, the needle scratches and rhythm and reason tread their way, penetrating the air. Voices erupt, and the comforting warmth of background white noise scratches to those who listen. This world talks and breathes, and through its warm scratching and occasional slip we know the world is there, reminding us where we actually stand, not fooling ourselves that there is no difference between the voice and our own. A small divot tells us a story, a blur in the sound gives us a new memory, the preserved moment’s past, alters the sound and now a new history rises. The vinyl landscape is given valleys and mountains, marks to call its own. The world has its own tale, on top of the one it tells, whirling on until a sudden jerk and the sound is scarred, and the world is put back into its sleeve, and a new one comes out to play.
With the development of memory we kicked off a struggle of preservation, though different than what was done before. We’ve been preserving time. From painting hunts on walls to videos of a fat kid who thinks he has a light saber, we’ve been keeping these moments preserved. Amongst our many efforts to preserve a moment in time, we developed wide, flat(ish) discs of vinyl kept in paper and cardboard sleeves.
These moments are worlds into themselves, placed down on rotating tables, platforms propping up geocentric universes and setting in motion their own days and nights. As the world turns, the needle scratches and rhythm and reason tread their way, penetrating the air. Voices erupt, and the comforting warmth of background white noise scratches to those who listen. This world talks and breathes, and through its warm scratching and occasional slip we know the world is there, reminding us where we actually stand, not fooling ourselves that there is no difference between the voice and our own. A small divot tells us a story, a blur in the sound gives us a new memory, the preserved moment’s past, alters the sound and now a new history rises. The vinyl landscape is given valleys and mountains, marks to call its own. The world has its own tale, on top of the one it tells, whirling on until a sudden jerk and the sound is scarred, and the world is put back into its sleeve, and a new one comes out to play.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Thinking of LA, of course.
Today’s word:
Drought
Well, I wouldn’t be too surprised if this word wasn’t a common one on the lips of people from the Western US or certain other parts of the world this year, but it is an unfortunate one to hear.
When mentioning drought, there is always a certain undertone of sorrow, fear, or loss. Is there anything more important than water? Even the long forgotten Pueblo people know the importance of water. Mayans poisoned the water of their enemies, tossing defeated and disgraced nobles into town wells. All societies have developed methods to obtain water, and when they didn’t, they died. So deep inside we all know what it means when there is no water, when there is drought.
The drought is one of the most comprehensive weapons of death. Civilizations can be laid low, crops turn to dust, and lives are swept away amidst drought. In the center, it all looks like hell. No sign of friends, no sign of animals, just rocks and sand as far as the eye can see. Here the blue sky offers no solace, for it only allows the burning sun to cast its gaze on the land below. Shadows are thin and temporary here, and off in the distance, weeks if not months away (provided one could live so long), snow capped mountains mock with their haughty promise of ice’s cool kiss. This land is pain. Every animal that somehow survives this tortuous land looks like some monstrous demon, covered in horns and plates. The trees look like tall warriors of hell whose curse and demand is that they not be touched. The rocks themselves hold the marks of water from long ago, but now they seem almost regretful, as their moist past is long gone. Welcome to the desert, where drought is description and not a temporary state. Those that survive are those that conserve, and their very structure reflects this. The heat is damnable, but at night a new terror rises. The darkness itself can literally turn water to ice, were there water to do so, and it drains the heat from all the land, until the sun rises to scorch it in the morning. The atmosphere is dry, and day and night your bodily fluids imperceptibly are stolen away by the air itself. This is a land that takes, and only the hardiest survive; it is a land defined by drought, a land without water, and a land entirely different from what many of us seek as our own.
Drought
Well, I wouldn’t be too surprised if this word wasn’t a common one on the lips of people from the Western US or certain other parts of the world this year, but it is an unfortunate one to hear.
When mentioning drought, there is always a certain undertone of sorrow, fear, or loss. Is there anything more important than water? Even the long forgotten Pueblo people know the importance of water. Mayans poisoned the water of their enemies, tossing defeated and disgraced nobles into town wells. All societies have developed methods to obtain water, and when they didn’t, they died. So deep inside we all know what it means when there is no water, when there is drought.
The drought is one of the most comprehensive weapons of death. Civilizations can be laid low, crops turn to dust, and lives are swept away amidst drought. In the center, it all looks like hell. No sign of friends, no sign of animals, just rocks and sand as far as the eye can see. Here the blue sky offers no solace, for it only allows the burning sun to cast its gaze on the land below. Shadows are thin and temporary here, and off in the distance, weeks if not months away (provided one could live so long), snow capped mountains mock with their haughty promise of ice’s cool kiss. This land is pain. Every animal that somehow survives this tortuous land looks like some monstrous demon, covered in horns and plates. The trees look like tall warriors of hell whose curse and demand is that they not be touched. The rocks themselves hold the marks of water from long ago, but now they seem almost regretful, as their moist past is long gone. Welcome to the desert, where drought is description and not a temporary state. Those that survive are those that conserve, and their very structure reflects this. The heat is damnable, but at night a new terror rises. The darkness itself can literally turn water to ice, were there water to do so, and it drains the heat from all the land, until the sun rises to scorch it in the morning. The atmosphere is dry, and day and night your bodily fluids imperceptibly are stolen away by the air itself. This is a land that takes, and only the hardiest survive; it is a land defined by drought, a land without water, and a land entirely different from what many of us seek as our own.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
I'm not sure where this came from
Today's word is
Circumspect
In Pa Kua, one walks around in circles as part of a meditation that supposedly descended from Taoist monks.
A cautious circle wrapping around something, abstract or concrete, some source of hesitant curiosity is what feeds the circumspection. This is no feeling of a wall blocking the unknown with oneself at its base, staring up into its reaches. It feels like a mystery box, something I can step around, walk about, tower over, but still within it holds the unknown. Wariness and curiosity intermix walking around this box, and tugging at my mind’s edges is the hope that somehow it will reveal its secrets. Residing inside is the vast ocean of infinite possibilities, the unknown that nettles until it is swept away by the hand of certitude. It’d be easy to open it, but what of danger within? A firm distance must be kept, for inside there may be vipers crouched and spitting cobras preparing a salivary assault. It could also be something better. Each step is soft, each breath hushed, as I slowly make my way around, inspecting every angle, listening attentively for the slightest hint of what lies within. Given enough time, my steps would erode away the soil and encircle the enigma in a dry moat, but that would never satisfy the questioning fingers that have now gripped my mind. Oh damned spirits of inquiry, you force my hand so often and yet again. And so a tentative step is taken inward, questing hands reach out to reveal…
Circumspect
In Pa Kua, one walks around in circles as part of a meditation that supposedly descended from Taoist monks.
A cautious circle wrapping around something, abstract or concrete, some source of hesitant curiosity is what feeds the circumspection. This is no feeling of a wall blocking the unknown with oneself at its base, staring up into its reaches. It feels like a mystery box, something I can step around, walk about, tower over, but still within it holds the unknown. Wariness and curiosity intermix walking around this box, and tugging at my mind’s edges is the hope that somehow it will reveal its secrets. Residing inside is the vast ocean of infinite possibilities, the unknown that nettles until it is swept away by the hand of certitude. It’d be easy to open it, but what of danger within? A firm distance must be kept, for inside there may be vipers crouched and spitting cobras preparing a salivary assault. It could also be something better. Each step is soft, each breath hushed, as I slowly make my way around, inspecting every angle, listening attentively for the slightest hint of what lies within. Given enough time, my steps would erode away the soil and encircle the enigma in a dry moat, but that would never satisfy the questioning fingers that have now gripped my mind. Oh damned spirits of inquiry, you force my hand so often and yet again. And so a tentative step is taken inward, questing hands reach out to reveal…
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
About last night....
In honor of this auspicious occasion, today's word is:
Genesis
I think it is very natural for someone to connect the word Genesis with the bible, being the first book therein, but I’m not too religious of a fellow, and I don’t connect to the bible so well.
To me, Genesis brings up visions of a stormy, lightning prone primordial Earth and a rocky cradle cupping an amino acid soup that first develops the infant origin of life. I think I saw that on a Star Trek episode. Supposedly only one true beginning occurred, so all other beginnings have developed from pre-existing conditions. Everything comes from something, life from the primordial soup. It always seems that the stage is set, and then something… unexpected occurs.
This beginning cycle is repeated over and over all throughout time, whether it is the birth of a star or the growth of a sapling struggling to break through the soil. Unfortunately, everything that comes into being must fade away, mountains are eroded, glaciers melt, and Roman walls eventually crumble. Though inevitable, decay can often be postponed, even warded off for a time. A star may extend its life through accretion, Everest gains height from the very forces from which it was born, and an oak may continue on through the seeds that become its progeny. All of things must touch their source to continue. Even amphibians remember the water as their origin; when they forget, they dry out and die. All of life’s great experiments end when they lose the connection to the beginning, and this occurs too often too soon. In my eyes we’ve wandered, many of us at cross purposes, but today we get back to touch the beginning, knowing our source and restoring ourselves. Reaching back to the murky primordial soup of the Delaware River, I believe today we remember our genesis, and thus the stage is set.
Genesis
I think it is very natural for someone to connect the word Genesis with the bible, being the first book therein, but I’m not too religious of a fellow, and I don’t connect to the bible so well.
To me, Genesis brings up visions of a stormy, lightning prone primordial Earth and a rocky cradle cupping an amino acid soup that first develops the infant origin of life. I think I saw that on a Star Trek episode. Supposedly only one true beginning occurred, so all other beginnings have developed from pre-existing conditions. Everything comes from something, life from the primordial soup. It always seems that the stage is set, and then something… unexpected occurs.
This beginning cycle is repeated over and over all throughout time, whether it is the birth of a star or the growth of a sapling struggling to break through the soil. Unfortunately, everything that comes into being must fade away, mountains are eroded, glaciers melt, and Roman walls eventually crumble. Though inevitable, decay can often be postponed, even warded off for a time. A star may extend its life through accretion, Everest gains height from the very forces from which it was born, and an oak may continue on through the seeds that become its progeny. All of things must touch their source to continue. Even amphibians remember the water as their origin; when they forget, they dry out and die. All of life’s great experiments end when they lose the connection to the beginning, and this occurs too often too soon. In my eyes we’ve wandered, many of us at cross purposes, but today we get back to touch the beginning, knowing our source and restoring ourselves. Reaching back to the murky primordial soup of the Delaware River, I believe today we remember our genesis, and thus the stage is set.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Start tumbling
I’ve pondered on the different meanings and tones that words can take over the years, and after reading a short section of a book describing the flexibility of definitions, I thought I’d do an experiment. I will post different words each weekday (as I can) and include a short paragraph describing how the emotional state the word puts me in. The idea isn’t to deliver the hard and fast definition of a word; it is to do a bit of free association with the word’s environment from one’s perspective. Now, the experiment is for you to do the same. In the comments, just include the word and contribute a paragraph or two about how the word makes you feel.
So in that vein, today's word is
Sojourn
My sojourn is not part of a well laid plan, and is not just a marker on the map of my trip, at least not yet. I have no clue where I'm going next, and I am only staying because I don't know where next I should go. I feel like I'm outside a hut at the edge of a cliff, looking out into a great valley, but the valley is obscured by a rolling fog bank that only occasionally offers tantalizing hints of what is beyond. What next? What next? I wonder if this is a leap of faith, or if that is just a foolish thought. I can't find the path, I can't see where to step next or from where it is best to leap. I don't know what's ahead of me, and it is a bit frightening, a bit distressing. What if I miss my chance? What if I choose wrong? So steeped in uncomfortable uncertainty, I watch and wait, looking for a sign of direction or for some internal gear to click and tell me to take action now. I'm looking for the answers, but there is no clear path ahead of me. So I wait.
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