8.31.2009

Time will say nothing but I told you so


"For us, time is a jarring, urgent problem, perhaps the most vital problem of metaphysics, while eternity is a game or a spent hope.  We read in Plato's Timaeus that time is a moving image of eternity, and it barely strikes a chord, distracting no one from the conviction that eternity is an image wrought in the substance of time."

(Borges, 1936)

Sinai to Canaan























(Also the name of a fine 2-song suite by Chris Thile)

8.27.2009

I remember


(picture from traveladventures.org)




















it will be sacred, no matter what.

8.20.2009

Well then.

the silence ripeness, and the ripeness all































ALONSO

This is a strange thing as e'er I look'd on.

Pointing to Caliban

PROSPERO

He is as disproportion'd in his manners
As in his shape. Go, sirrah, to my cell;
Take with you your companions; as you look
To have my pardon, trim it handsomely.

CALIBAN

Ay, that I will; and I'll be wise hereafter
And seek for grace. What a thrice-double ass
Was I, to take this drunkard for a god
And worship this dull fool!

PROSPERO

Go to; away!


(painting: Ariel and Caliban, by William Bell Scott, 1865)

8.19.2009

meeting the faces that we meet






















Only tell others what is of importance to them. Only ask them what you need to know. In both cases, that is, limit the conversation to what the speaker really possesses. --Argue only in order to reach a conclusion. Think aloud only with those to whom this means something. Don't let small talk fill up the time and the silence except as a medium for bearing unexpressed messages between two people who are attuned to each other. A dietary for those who have learned by experience the truth of the saying, "for every idle word . . . . " But hardly popular in social life.

**

Take warning from all those times when, on meeting again, we feel ashamed because we realize we had accepted the false simplification which absence permits, its obliteration of all those characteristics which, when we meet face to face, force themselves upon even the blindest. Where human beings are concerned, the statement "nothing is true" is true--at a distance; and the converse is also true--at the moment of confrontation.

(D. H., 1950)

meta--


















UPDATE: Previous post was deleted. Didn't follow Horace's advice, but I should have.

Well, that was grouchy, wasn't it? Maybe I should add another item to my list of guidelines: avoid writing any blog post after a full day of meetings--lest the usual filters should fail. I may have overstated the case just a little. Yes, this new circumstance is a challenge, so to speak, but foolish to think that it's a punishment of some sort. I'm not so important.

Also, pre-semester jitters--made worse by the pressure of some research projects that are proving more challenging than I'd like.

Also, real anxiety about the *$@^# van, and how we're going to find an affordable, reliable one. One pays a considerable premium for the Honda, after all. Even used.

Let's face it, honesty is a risky business. People say they want you to be honest, want you to be yourself, but they also don't want to be bothered if what you say happens to be hard or unpleasant. This means that they want truths that can more or less leave them untouched, undisturbed. So we compromise. My compromise is to mitigate unpleasantness--or disguise it--by displacing it onto poetry or some other quoted material. Or self-deprecating humor.

In light of the above, and so much else, here are new words to live by:
If you're automatically sure that you know what reality is and who and what is really important - if you want to operate on your default setting - then you, like me, will not consider possibilities that aren't pointless and annoying. But if you've really learned how to think, how to pay attention, then you will know you have other options. It will be within your power to experience a crowded, loud, slow, consumer-hell-type situation as not only meaningful but sacred, on fire with the same force that lit the stars - compassion, love, the sub-surface unity of all things. Not that that mystical stuff's necessarily true: the only thing that's capital-T True is that you get to decide how you're going to try to see it. You get to consciously decide what has meaning and what doesn't. You get to decide what to worship.

Because here's something else that's true. In the day-to-day trenches of adult life, there is no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship. And an outstanding reason for choosing some sort of god or spiritual-type thing to worship - be it JC or Allah, be it Yahweh or the Wiccan mother-goddess or the Four Noble Truths or some infrangible set of ethical principles - is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive. If you worship money and things - if they are where you tap real meaning in life - then you will never have enough. Never feel you have enough. It's the truth. Worship your own body and beauty and sexual allure and you will always feel ugly, and when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally plant you. On one level, we all know this stuff already - it's been codified as myths, proverbs, clichés, bromides, epigrams, parables: the skeleton of every great story. The trick is keeping the truth up front in daily consciousness. Worship power - you will feel weak and afraid, and you will need ever more power over others to keep the fear at bay. Worship your intellect, being seen as smart - you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out.

The insidious thing about these forms of worship is not that they're evil or sinful; it is that they are unconscious. They are default settings. They're the kind of worship you just gradually slip into, day after day, getting more and more selective about what you see and how you measure value without ever being fully aware that that's what you're doing. And the world will not discourage you from operating on your default settings, because the world of men and money and power hums along quite nicely on the fuel of fear and contempt and frustration and craving and the worship of self. Our own present culture has harnessed these forces in ways that have yielded extraordinary wealth and comfort and personal freedom. The freedom to be lords of our own tiny skull-sized kingdoms, alone at the centre of all creation. This kind of freedom has much to recommend it. But there are all different kinds of freedom, and the kind that is most precious you will not hear much talked about in the great outside world of winning and achieving and displaying. The really important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline, and effort, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad petty little unsexy ways, every day. That is real freedom. The alternative is unconsciousness, the default setting, the "rat race" - the constant gnawing sense of having had and lost some infinite thing.

(DFW, 2005)
(you can read the whole thing here, and buy it here.)

8.18.2009

It's business time














This will make you sit up and pay attention:

Agenda Item: Pandemic Preparations

8.17.2009

Mmmmmmmmmmmoka





















Got me a Bialetti Moka Express stovetop coffee maker this weekend on the recommendation of Kevin Kelly's Cool Tools, and based on zillions of positive Amazon reviews. Tried it out this morning.

Verdict: delicioso! Really: pleasantly strong & remarkably smooth, even using standard ground Caffe Verona.

Ha! Ha! Good Joke!



















wait a minute . . . why aren't you laughing?

8.14.2009

Two dialogues.




A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE SOUL
AND BODY

Soul.
O, WHO shall from this dungeon raise
A soul enslaved so many ways ?
With bolts of bones, that fettered stands
In feet, and manacled in hands ;
Here blinded with an eye, and there
Deaf with the drumming of an ear ;
A soul hung up, as 'twere, in chains
Of nerves, and arteries, and veins ;
Tortured, besides each other part,
In a vain head, and double heart ?

Body.


O, who shall me deliver whole,
From bonds of this tyrannic soul ?
Which, stretched upright, impales me so
That mine own precipice I go ;
And warms and moves this needless frame,
(A fever could but do the same),
And, wanting where its spite to try,
Has made me live to let me die
A body that could never rest,
Since this ill spirit it possessed.

Soul.


What magic could me thus confine
Within another's grief to pine ?
Where, whatsoever it complain,
I feel, that cannot feel, the pain ;
And all my care itself employs,
That to preserve which me destroys ;
Constrained not only to endure
Diseases, but, what's worse, the cure ;
And, ready oft the port to gain,
Am shipwrecked into health again.

Body.


But Physic yet could never reach
The maladies thou me dost teach ;
Whom first the cramp of hope does tear,
And then the palsy shakes of fear ;
The pestilence of love does heat,
Or hatred's hidden ulcer eat ;
Joy's cheerful madness does perplex,
Or sorrow's other madness vex ;
Which knowledge forces me to know,
And memory will not forego ;
What but a soul could have the wit
To build me up for sin so fit ?
So architects do square and hew
Green trees that in the forest grew.

(Marvell)

**


Get a playlist! Standalone player Get Ringtones


(Hem)

8.13.2009

Spectacle!























What style shall I choose?
Maybe hipster glasses.









Maybe Arvin Sloane glasses.








Maybe Lego glasses!











Bifocals, perhaps?









Thank goodness there's this article to help me choose a pair that suits me just perfectly.

(warning: link also features scantily clad women. just sayin.)

Conversations in the Dark



















5:15: Elder Kitty knocks book off shelf, waking Piers so as to be fed.
5:16: Piers walks to hall bathroom to feed Elder and Watermelon Kitties, waking Little Red.
5:17: Piers thinks: crap. Now what?? I'm trapped between the kitty food and a crying toddler!
5:19: Piers walks back to his bed & crawls in, trying to be quiet.
5:20: Little Red displeased. Continues to voice displeasure for several minutes.

Spouse murmurs: "perhaps we should pull his door to?"
(pause)
(more grouching)
Spouse says: "so should I go do it, then?"
Big Brother: "Little Red. What's the matter?" (voice coming from Little Red's room.)
(pause)
(crying)
Big Brother: "ooooh. You can't see." *light in Little Red's room clicks on*

5:25: Big Brother's little piping voice reading alphabet book to Little Red, who is making encouraging noises, like "geeehhhhh" and "blaaagggahhhhlaagggghhhh"

Spouse laughs. Quietly.
Piers laughs. Quietly.
Big Brother (now evidently in parent bedroom): "mommehh."
Spouse: "yes?"
Big Brother: "Little Red wants to get up."
*sigh*

5:30: next thing Piers knows, there are two little squirrelly wiggle-worms in his bed.
Guess it's time to get up, then.

(yes, I know that Polar Bears and Penguins occupy separate hemispheres, except in the case of zoos.)

Venus Will Now Say a Few Words

















Since you are going to begin to-day
Let us consider what it is you do.
You are the one whose part it is to lean,
For whom it is not good to be alone.
Laugh warmly turning shyly in the hall
Or climb with bare knees the volcanic hill,
Acquire that flick of wrist and after strain
Relax in your darling's arms like a stone,
Remembering everything you can confess,
Making the most of firelight, of hours of fuss;
But joy is mine not yours--to have come so far,
Whose cleverest invention was lately fur;
Lizards my best once who took years to breed,
Could not control the temperature of blood.

To reach that shape for your face to assume,
Pleasure to many and despair to some,
I shifted ranges, lived epochs handicapped
By climate, wars, or what the young men kept,
Modified theories on the types of dross,
Altered desire and history of dress.

You in the town now call the exile fool
That writes home once a year as last leaves fall,
Think--Romans had a language in their day
And ordered roads with it, but it had to die:
Your culture can but leave--forgot as sure
As place-name origins in favourite shire--
Jottings for stories, some often-mentioned Jack,
And references in letters to a private joke,
Equipment rusting in unweeded lanes,
Virtues still advertised on local lines;
And your conviction shall help none to fly,
Caouse rather a perversion on next floor.

Nor even despair your own, when swiftly
Comes general assault on your ideas of safety:
That sense of famine, central anguish felt
For goodness wasted at peripheral faluth,
Your shutting up the house and taking prow
To go into the wilderness to pray,
Means that I wish to leave and to pass on,
Select another form, perhaps your son;
Though he reject you, join opposing team
Be late or early at another time,
My treatment will not differ--he will be tipped,
Found weeping, signed for, made to answer, topped.
Do not imagine you can abdicate;
Before you reach the frontier you are caught;
Others have tried it and will try again
To finish that which they did not begin:
Their fate must always be the same as yours,
To suffer the loss they were afraid of, yes,
Holders of one position, wrong for years.

(W. H. Auden, November 1929)

8.12.2009

Hooligan report

This morning at 5:20, Little Red begins to stir. Next thing we know, the light in his room clicks on. waaaaaiiiitaminute. Matters become more clear when we hear the Big Brother reading a book to him. By the time I get up to check on things, the Big Brother has gone out to the den, turned on all the lights, and gone back to his room to play with trains.

**
The Big Brother has been a space cadet. He gets dressed slowly. He eats slowly. Two afternoons ago, he spent from 1:00 to 6:00 in his room because it took him the latter three hours to clean up the mess he had made. And he's developed a problem: we can't seem to get him to stop putting his hands in his pants.

Speaking of pants, all of his pants are now hovering over his ankles. Upon commenting on them the other night, he responded, "I shot up like a mighty rocket!!" You probably had to be there, but it was funny.

**
Thomas & Friends are all of a sudden in favor again. The Big Brother has an enormous track layout (that he built himself--we think this is the basis for its new popularity) that is, significantly, exempt from the "clean your room" mandate. Little Red also likes the trains, which has led to some "disagreement."

**
Other than the above, most of the days are spent pulling the cushions off the couch, spreading toys all over the house, imitating and/or chasing the kitties, spilling food and drink hither & yon, and generally making us tired. Themselves, too--Little Red nearly dropped off to sleep during lunch today.

8.11.2009

If I could tell you

Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

There are no fortunes to be told, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

Suppose the lions all get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will Time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.

(W. H. Auden)

om nom nom

I've started cooking again. There are various reasons, most of which I'm not going to go into right now, but I'm happy to say that I still find great joy in it.

For the majority of my married life, I've been the primary cook in the household. This changed to a certain degree when we moved to West Tennessee, because for the first time I was putting in long days at work, often coming home after 5:00, often bone weary. The Spouse took over kitchen duties willingly, but not all that enthusiastically; she does it because it needs to be done, not because she enjoys it. I, on the other hand, find it both relaxing and fulfilling.

I've been keeping the menu simple, mainly because we have preschool palates at the table, but it's not like I mind it--I find that even the simplest cooking can be a lot of fun. What's more, I enjoy the challenge of wanting to make something but not having or being able to follow a recipe. I even got a compliment from the Big Brother this evening: "this is a good dinner, daddy!" Meanwhile, Little Red was shoveling it in with both hands. I took that to be a good sign as well.

Now, if only I could find the time to do some serious baking, and an extra 30 grand or so to make the galley we have into a proper kitchen. Oh, and perhaps I should learn to not make such a mess. Seriously, when I'm done cooking, it looks like a grenade has gone off in there.

8.10.2009

Things that are awesome, Vol. 9
















Neal Stephenson.

Writer of truly mind-blowing, genre-bending, sci-fi/adventure novels (three of which are a series set in the 18th Century during the careers of Hooke, Newton, and Leibniz. Hard to get more genre bending than that). His novels are heavily invested in:
The books are all challenging, by turns intricate and hilarious. I was pleasantly surprised to see how Cryptonomicon actually involves the descendants of the main characters in The Baroque Cycle (Shaftoe, and actually two generations of Waterhouses). Each book has its easter eggs, though I will admit that in every case besides Snow Crash, I thought the books were hard to catch onto initially.

They pay back the effort tenfold. They're loooong (latest one is 900+), which means they got all sorts of sciency fictiony adventury goodness in them--and he writes them longhand, using a fountain pen. What's more, he looks badass, especially for a writer of incredibly "nerdy" books.

His next one is due out in 2011!

8.09.2009

X&Y

















Today, during church, I had to help in the Big Brother's room. The individuals scheduled to work in his classroom couldn't be bothered to show up, so I and another woman (SC) filled in. No problem.

There were three boys and about six girls in there; when I walked in, the boys were doing what boys do--playing superheroes (i.e., Spiderman, Batman, etc.). This struck my SC as particularly objectionable, so she scolded the boys, and they piped down.

Another lady walks in a few minutes later, and SC says, "we're doing fine, but the B-O-Y-S have been a problem." This as the three of them are sitting quietly at a table playing with little people and cars and planes.

Lady, that's called them being boys, not problems. Get a *@^#% grip.

8.07.2009

small, big, white, damn








lies. Specifically, lies about lies. Fascinating reading.

excerpt:

5. Lying will be punished. Perhaps. But not as often as truth-telling. Lying effectively in many situations is generally superior than telling the truth, because often we have to search our minds for the truth, whereas a good lie can be easier to produce (though of course caution is indicated if the lie can be easily unmasked). Invariably a skillful liar makes a calculation about his chances of being exposed and avoids situations where a lie can be revealed. Lying is punished only if it is detected. A more reasonable assessment would be that ineffective and unskillful lying is severely punished. No one is held in greater contempt than an unskilled liar.

6. Lying is avoidable. Mark Twain, in his essay “On the Decay of the Art of Lying,” realized the importance of skillful lying, “No high-minded man, no man of right feeling, can contemplate the lumbering and slovenly lying of the present day without grieving to see a noble art so prostituted.” Twain goes on to make an event stronger point: that lying is unavoidable. “No fact is more firmly established than that lying is a necessity of our circumstances — the deduction that it is then a Virtue goes without saying. No virtue can reach its highest usefulness without careful and diligent cultivation – therefore, it goes without saying that this one ought to be taught in the public schools — even in the newspapers” [17].
I love the bit about lying being punished, but not as often as telling the truth.

Bracing.























An exchange yesterday went something like this:

I'll tell you what makes me most angry--it's that I can't seem to get to the place where I feel like I'm a whole person.

Tell me what it would mean to be a whole person.

I don't know--I guess I want to be free from constantly being pulled between contradictory desires.

Do you know anyone who is free from those? I'll bet there aren't any. In fact, I don't know of a single person who is "whole" in the way you describe.

. . .

So how did I get to the point where I was so intent on such an unattainable ideal?

What is your story looking like?




"Every autobiography is concerned with two characters, a Don Quixote, the Ego, and a Sancho Panza, the Self."

--W. H. Auden

8.06.2009

It's August

















. . . so it's time for a new picture update.

Precious Five























Be happy, precious five,
So long as I'm alive
Nor try to ask me what
You should be happy for;
Think, if it helps, of love
Or alcohol or gold,
But do as you are told.
I could (which you cannot)
Find reasons fast enough
To face the sky and roar
In anger and despair
At what is going on,
Demanding that it name
Whoever is to blame:
The sky would only wait
Till all my breath was gone
And then reiterate
As if I wasn't there
That singular command
I do not understand,
Bless what there is for being,
Which has to be obeyed, for
What else am I made for,
Agreeing or disagreeing?

(W. H. Auden, 1950)

8.04.2009

Ira

















I have a real problem on my hands, and as you might be able to tell from the picture above (click on it to blow it up; it's worth examining in full), it's my own anger.

One of the things I have discovered over the course of the past year is that I carry a considerable amount of it with me. Its expression tends to be cyclical and relatively unpredictable, but for the most part it has been swallowed or turned inward (mostly turned inward, on myself).

Well, these past few days, for some reason, I've been experiencing it more heavily & frequently. I'm not sure what all that means, but I know it's there, and predominant. The question is, what to do with it? I don't want to be an angry person.

And him beside rides fierce reuenging VVrath,
Vpon a Lion, loth for to be led;
And in his hand a burning brond he hath,
The which he brandisheth about his hed;
His eyes did hurle forth sparkles fiery red,
And stared sterne on all, that him beheld,
As ashes pale of hew and seeming ded;
And on his dagger still his hand he held,
Trembling through hasty rage, whe[n] choler in him sweld.

His ruffin raiment all was staind with blood,
Which he had spilt, and all to rags yrent,
Through vnaduized rashnesse woxen wood;
For of his hands he had no gouernement,
Ne car'd for bloud in his auengement:
But when the furious fit was ouerpast,
His cruell facts he often would repent;
Yet wilfull man he neuer would forecast,
How many mischieues should ensue his heedlesse hast.

A benediction of sorts























May your wild lip get you where you're going
With your inventions, your intentions, your laughter
Your forever yearning

About that Black Dog . . .
















No, he's nowhere near here, but I just read this, and found it pretty evocative. And here's the thing: it's written by one of the sunniest, funniest writers I know of:
The last two weeks have been a bit unfortunate, with the Black Dog prowling and growling in the bushes outside the reach of the campfire light; I just lost enthusiasm for my enthusiasms. I think it’s lifted. The worst thing about Depression isn’t the sense that you’re ac-centuating the negative, it’s that you’re seeing things the way they really are, stripped of the illusions you use every day to divert yourself from the Yawning Maw of Futility. It’s the wind that blows off the snow and reveals the stone.