this is a freewriting exercise...
intimation. the flashes of - what? the indescribable. the socially inexplicable. it is what is burned into my brain, a cattle-prod on my mind's eye. i am corrupted, branded as it were, by the images of what i imagined i needed.
there is something intolerable about the lack of a dream, even the lack of a nightmare. it is to be nameless, and without a language, not a language to speak, certainly, but more crucial, without a language to refer to the self. before language, does the world exist? is the big bang applicable to human reality itself, that before the advent of language and the speaking self, the universe is a plenitude waiting to explode? is that why "existence" must always be outside of itself (i.e. "ex-istence")? is that why we have to continually "spell out", "ex-plain", "talk it out?" because the inside and the before is always an anomy, the anonymous, the nameless, the abjected. "what is your face before your parents were born?" what is that originless origin, the beginning which cannot be spoken of?
the biggest lie of a fairy tale are the first four words: "once upon a time." it is upon this primary lie that all other truths may be built, like scaffolding around an empty well, like the spider's web built between endpoints that do not exist. even the "happily ever after," that's not so scandalous a lie as the initial one, for who cares what farcical endings we posit after we've already made a farce of the beginning?
there are two ways to initiate a crystalline wave in a supersaturated solution. (actually, a few) one way involves dropping in a seed crystal. the seed crystal is the "archetype" around which all crystals that come after model themselves, bind themselves to... the other way involves making a scratch in the surface of the glass holding the supersaturated solution. the invisible etch creates imperfect and random surfaces upon which the subsequent crystalline wave can take hold. the latter is the "start from scratch" option...
in biblical terms: it is said: in the beginning was the word. the word is the seed crystal, the archetype deposited by god into the primordial and formless sea, the word that divided the waters and created life. in other terms, it is also said: in the beginning was the act. the act is the scratching of the surfaces. the act is the volition that sought to tame a primordial itch, the itch that is the imperfection of the nameless beginning, the itch that IS the beginning, for there was no "once upon a time," the beginning always was a conflict, and a nameless yearning to end and begin that conflict. scratch is another name for the devil... although the devil is nothing other than the other side, the other mode, of creation.
to "start from scratch" implies a starting over, as though there were some initial mistake that required a "re-do" as it were. to start afresh (via the word) implies that at one point there was a blank slate, a clean surface, upon which to write. which is the fiction? we prefer the latter option, it is the simpler one, because the implication is that we can "trace" our beginnings from the initial impressions, as though experience is what formed us, made us what and who we are. but the latter "scratch" option is inevitably true as well. we are born and introduced into a world that always already is, that always already precedes us. and we are not and never are innocent. we are never the clean thing that was later sullied by experience. we are products of our parents, of all their genetic and spiritual failings. and our actions are never entirely clean and pure, but are the acting out of "itches" and "scratches" that we cannot understand, we never have or had the language for. watching the way a baby moves, its hands and feet arcing through an invisible infinite, its mouth shaping. there is no blank slate there. everything is always in motion, a terrible wonderful restlessness...
Friday, March 28, 2008
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Shari's exhibit on KHON!
Shari Tamashiro's exhibit honoring World War II veterans was recently featured on KHON's morning show (Manolo Morales). Here is a link to view the segment:
http://www.khon2.com/news/morning/17001011.html
Check it out!
http://www.khon2.com/news/morning/17001011.html
Check it out!
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Autistic
Thimerosol supposedly has been ruled out as a causative factor for autism. I mean, they say that they've stopped putting this mercury based carrier into vaccines since 2001, and the rate of autism has still consistently risen. Interestingly enough, according to SPED professor Garnett (sp?) Smith, the rate of increase of cases of autism almost matches toe to toe with the rate of DECREASE of diagnosed cases of mental retardation. As Smith says, "I'm not saying anything," (a disclaimer) "but isn't it interesting?" Autism, after all, is a diagnosis much preferred over mental retardation. For one thing, autism is tied to so much "snake oil" and "hope," people think that at least with such a diagnosis, there MUST BE the possibility of improving and reversing the condition (such is not the case, typically, with MR). For another thing, why, autism has such rare and wonderful (in its own way) possibilities as the autistic savante (ala Dustin Hoffman); that ain't half as bad as the predictably low ceilinged expectations for a moderate to severe MR kid... Truth be told, and from what I've read, though, autism is an entirely different animal from MR.
Mysteriously, it's a disease that I feel sometimes reflects our own society, in its drastic disconnect from "common social awareness" (despite our "connection" via the web, etc., I often feel that we are much more DISCONNECTED from each other societally). Something I think the same of with regards to that other growing diagnosis: ADHD. Face it, we are a disconnected, "selfish", and attention deficit society; small wonder that our children are showing up with these disorders.
(Okay, I'm going to probably get a lot of hate for such broad and insensitive statements. Kinda like the Christian conservatives talking about the "causes of 9/11" or "Katrina." No, I'm not attributing a causal relation. Nor am I even attributing a real relation of any sort. Just mentioning that it is INTERESTING how "behavior of society as a whole" can be seen as analogous to the diseases and disorders appearing in certain members of that society. THAT's ALL).
Mysteriously, it's a disease that I feel sometimes reflects our own society, in its drastic disconnect from "common social awareness" (despite our "connection" via the web, etc., I often feel that we are much more DISCONNECTED from each other societally). Something I think the same of with regards to that other growing diagnosis: ADHD. Face it, we are a disconnected, "selfish", and attention deficit society; small wonder that our children are showing up with these disorders.
(Okay, I'm going to probably get a lot of hate for such broad and insensitive statements. Kinda like the Christian conservatives talking about the "causes of 9/11" or "Katrina." No, I'm not attributing a causal relation. Nor am I even attributing a real relation of any sort. Just mentioning that it is INTERESTING how "behavior of society as a whole" can be seen as analogous to the diseases and disorders appearing in certain members of that society. THAT's ALL).
Regret is a red planet.
Thinking of re-subtitling my blog to say: "Regret is a red planet." Whatchoothink? Perhaps the current subtitle ("The search for intelligent life continues...") is too obnoxious. Implication: You're all a bunch of idiots. Which is not the point at all. I'm the idiot! I AM THE IDIOT! And I am searching for intelligence AND life in this dead world that I happen to be. But just to reduce the possibility of this error, maybe changing to the above would be in order. Regret is my thing. Rue is my game. And like it or not, that's all I EVER write about. Regret regret regret. Don't YOU? Having come here and re(a)d this, I mean?
Relevant RevEnant
Jeez, I'm such a terrible speller... Tried to actually google the word "revOnant" (my test for the social and objective viability of my "spelling out") and discovered that no such word exists. Google suggested, "Did you mean 'revEnant?'" It didn't say this, but it might as well have added, "Because if that's what you mean, then you must be some Old School D+D dweebazoid who happened to glance through the Monster Manual once or twice, and saw some creepy picture of a zombie with a vice-like grip choking some poor fighter-looking dude to death. Jeez, get a life!" (Because: that's exactly where I got the idea, and became acquainted with the word...)
ANYWAY: interestingly enough, revEnant means someone who "returns from the dead, or after a long absence," and comes from the French word "revenir" meaning "to return." Etymologically, it shares a root with the word "revenue," which is traditionally defined as the "gross returns" (haha, zombie indeed) before taking account any losses... Also, as we are all too familiar by next month, part of that three lettered acronym, IRS. Taxes. Taxes (revenue) and Death (revenant). Indeed. The only things that keep returning...
So, if you ever paid attention to this monoblogue, you might have read that I intended to write something called "Relevant Revenant." It was going to have something to do with my grandfather. It wasn't intended to be disrespectful, but probably will be. It was going to have something to do, not with death, but with memory... "Revenant" meaning return somehow seems to dovetail nicely with this idea... Something which stubbornly comes back, returns, repeatedly...
I am thinking of detailing one of my grandfather's significant meanderings, like how one day he left the house and went wandering down to Hau Bush (in Ewa Beach). He'd already passed the point where he failed to recognize his own wife (he kept complimenting on how nice she was, but that he had to "go home..."). I often wondered, where was he trying to get to? I know that the part of the brain affected by Alzheimer's (hippocampus) is also near the "mapping" portions, those areas of the brain that allow us to navigate through space. (JEEZ, I sound so clinical and cold about this... Don't mean to be... Sometimes this sort of "objectivity" is in response to the utter futility and despair I feel with respect to this terrible terrible disease). Anyway, I wanted to write about his wandering as though there were some secret purpose to it, as though he were on a kind of quest. And I wanted to have, as his companion, a "talking dog," an Alaskan huskie with two different colored eyes (I actually know such a dog went missing in Ewa Beach). The dog would articulate things that my grandfather couldn't possibly know (for example, the meaning of "revenant"). Eventually, it would be revealed that my grandfather was searching for the "Bone of Memory," that aspect of his own experienced time and life that was "solid" and enduring, that could not be touched by the degenerative effects of his disease... And it would be something similar to the "HEART" that was lost by "Mad Hettie" in the Sandman series, in "Death: the High Cost of Living."
ANYWAY: interestingly enough, revEnant means someone who "returns from the dead, or after a long absence," and comes from the French word "revenir" meaning "to return." Etymologically, it shares a root with the word "revenue," which is traditionally defined as the "gross returns" (haha, zombie indeed) before taking account any losses... Also, as we are all too familiar by next month, part of that three lettered acronym, IRS. Taxes. Taxes (revenue) and Death (revenant). Indeed. The only things that keep returning...
So, if you ever paid attention to this monoblogue, you might have read that I intended to write something called "Relevant Revenant." It was going to have something to do with my grandfather. It wasn't intended to be disrespectful, but probably will be. It was going to have something to do, not with death, but with memory... "Revenant" meaning return somehow seems to dovetail nicely with this idea... Something which stubbornly comes back, returns, repeatedly...
I am thinking of detailing one of my grandfather's significant meanderings, like how one day he left the house and went wandering down to Hau Bush (in Ewa Beach). He'd already passed the point where he failed to recognize his own wife (he kept complimenting on how nice she was, but that he had to "go home..."). I often wondered, where was he trying to get to? I know that the part of the brain affected by Alzheimer's (hippocampus) is also near the "mapping" portions, those areas of the brain that allow us to navigate through space. (JEEZ, I sound so clinical and cold about this... Don't mean to be... Sometimes this sort of "objectivity" is in response to the utter futility and despair I feel with respect to this terrible terrible disease). Anyway, I wanted to write about his wandering as though there were some secret purpose to it, as though he were on a kind of quest. And I wanted to have, as his companion, a "talking dog," an Alaskan huskie with two different colored eyes (I actually know such a dog went missing in Ewa Beach). The dog would articulate things that my grandfather couldn't possibly know (for example, the meaning of "revenant"). Eventually, it would be revealed that my grandfather was searching for the "Bone of Memory," that aspect of his own experienced time and life that was "solid" and enduring, that could not be touched by the degenerative effects of his disease... And it would be something similar to the "HEART" that was lost by "Mad Hettie" in the Sandman series, in "Death: the High Cost of Living."
Superbad
Ok, I'll admit it... While it was a pretty liberally sprinkled with filth, I really liked this movie. Especially because, instead of just being about loser teenagers pursuing "P", it had a lot more to do with loyalty. In other words, teens are not just about hormones, if anything, they are somewhat self-aware of the absurdity of it all, of the biological pressure that threatens to consume "decent" human relations... Ok, I'm thinking too much about it, but there you go.
BTW, my wife liked it too. Which is actually saying a lot. Saying? Am I becoming whipped? Or is my wife actually developing a warped sense of reality like myself? Well, either way, I definitely am getting OLD. Old school. A creaky and clumsy sense of humor, all slow in the joints. And unable to get with the lingo. With dance steps that were NEVER in style, the kind that injure the other party (and, with overenthusiasm, the party killer himself).
Appreciate youth, young paduwans. It's might be wasted on you, but at least you've got it to waste...
BTW, my wife liked it too. Which is actually saying a lot. Saying? Am I becoming whipped? Or is my wife actually developing a warped sense of reality like myself? Well, either way, I definitely am getting OLD. Old school. A creaky and clumsy sense of humor, all slow in the joints. And unable to get with the lingo. With dance steps that were NEVER in style, the kind that injure the other party (and, with overenthusiasm, the party killer himself).
Appreciate youth, young paduwans. It's might be wasted on you, but at least you've got it to waste...
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Heart Murmurs
I am mainly writing this entry to record yet another "pun", or idea for a poem, or whatever. Haven't the clarity (or lack of) to write something on it just yet, just the seedling of a thought.
The heart organ consists, basically, of two pumps, two systems of circulation, one to collect "stale" de-oxygenated blood from the body and pump it to the lungs, and the other to collect "fresh" oxygenated blood from the lungs and pump it out to the body. You might say that the heart is "never one but two," it is always both the burden of the old and the push for the new. But this fundamental dualism aside, let's look at the problem of heart murmurs.
A heart murmur is an often faint, sometimes distinct "deviation" from the normal lub-dub sound/rhythm of the heart. Sometimes it is an "aftersound" following the "lub," other times an "aftersound" following the "dub." In any case, there is a whole science and art to listening to these sounds and determining where the "problem" is with the heart: for such murmurs do indicate problems, either with the atria or ventricles. Basically, heart murmurs are caused by "leaky" or inefficient valves; they are the sound of blood backing up, as it were.
Figuratively speaking, "heart murmurs" occur when there are "leaks" in the normally coherent and concealed ambiguity of the heart. They are memories, sometimes, or at other times, they may be inappropriate hopes (heart murmurs may occur as a result of faulty ventricles or atria, in either pump "loop"). In any case, they are not only inefficient, but potentially dangerous... The heart as our "looping" of desire, in normal "Healthy" individuals, kept "silent" and consistent (beating its syncopated rhythm with the chasing of each new pursuit), is threatened when it, for one reason or another, "LEAKS."
The normal functional machinations of our bodies and lives are so boring. Isn't it much more interesting when things break down? The mysterious signs and symptoms of burgeoning pathology, the coming to terms with abnormality, the struggles with perhaps inevitable "brokenness", the nature of (and possibility of) "cure." Yeah, it's only when things break down that we have to open them up and see how they really tick (the miraculous jerry-rigging that has kept us, and the whole society, afloat, apparently forever!).
The heart organ consists, basically, of two pumps, two systems of circulation, one to collect "stale" de-oxygenated blood from the body and pump it to the lungs, and the other to collect "fresh" oxygenated blood from the lungs and pump it out to the body. You might say that the heart is "never one but two," it is always both the burden of the old and the push for the new. But this fundamental dualism aside, let's look at the problem of heart murmurs.
A heart murmur is an often faint, sometimes distinct "deviation" from the normal lub-dub sound/rhythm of the heart. Sometimes it is an "aftersound" following the "lub," other times an "aftersound" following the "dub." In any case, there is a whole science and art to listening to these sounds and determining where the "problem" is with the heart: for such murmurs do indicate problems, either with the atria or ventricles. Basically, heart murmurs are caused by "leaky" or inefficient valves; they are the sound of blood backing up, as it were.
Figuratively speaking, "heart murmurs" occur when there are "leaks" in the normally coherent and concealed ambiguity of the heart. They are memories, sometimes, or at other times, they may be inappropriate hopes (heart murmurs may occur as a result of faulty ventricles or atria, in either pump "loop"). In any case, they are not only inefficient, but potentially dangerous... The heart as our "looping" of desire, in normal "Healthy" individuals, kept "silent" and consistent (beating its syncopated rhythm with the chasing of each new pursuit), is threatened when it, for one reason or another, "LEAKS."
The normal functional machinations of our bodies and lives are so boring. Isn't it much more interesting when things break down? The mysterious signs and symptoms of burgeoning pathology, the coming to terms with abnormality, the struggles with perhaps inevitable "brokenness", the nature of (and possibility of) "cure." Yeah, it's only when things break down that we have to open them up and see how they really tick (the miraculous jerry-rigging that has kept us, and the whole society, afloat, apparently forever!).
ANNOUNCEMENT!
I've been asked to pass on an announcement to all of you in Hawaii (like maybe the fractional portion of the one person who reads this [on occasion] here on Oahu). Kind of late, but: BLTN.
From my blurry friend (blurry like a propeller blade), Shari Tamashiro.
442nd RCT EXHIBIT - Honoring the Legacy
Kapiolani Community College Lama Library
March 24, 2008 to April 17, 2008
The sacrifice and bravery displayed by the 442nd Regimental Combat Team earned them the distinction of the most decorated unit for its size and length of service in the history of the U.S. Military. The 442nd RCT participated in "seven major campaigns in Italy and France, received seven Presidential Distinguished Unit Citations, and suffered 9,486 casualties and was awarded 18,143 individual decorations." (Selective Service System)
"The heroic exploits of the Japanese American soldier should be an inspiration to all of what courage, loyalty, honesty and devotion to America and its democratic ideals can achieve." – General Mark Clark
From March 24 to April 17, 2008, KCC Library will be presenting an exhibit honoring the 100th/442nd RCT. It also commemorates their 65th anniversary. The exhibit will feature artifacts and memorabilia from the 442nd Veterans Club Archive and Learning Center, as well as special displays on the 442nd Antitank Company, 232nd Combat Engineers, 442nd Medics, and 522nd Artillery. Additionally, the exhibit will contain a historical review and stories featuring the men of the 100th/442nd.
Lama Library Hours: March 24 – March 28: 8 am – 4 pmMarch 31 - April 17: 7:30 am – 7 pm (M-TH), 7:30 am – 4 pm (Fridays). Closed Saturday and Sunday.
Map: http://kcc.hawaii.edu/object/lamamap.html
PRESERVING AND SHARING THE LEGACY CELEBRATION
March 28, 2008, Lama Library
2 pm - 4 pm - Reception for nisei veterans. Come see the exhibit and learn how the Hawaii nisei legacy is being preserved and shared using digital storytelling.
RSVP to Shari Tamashiro at 808.734.9562 or sharit@hawaii.edu by March 24th. Parking instructions will be provided. Please indicate if handicap accommodations are required.
2:30 pm – PRESENTATION: Digital Storytelling and the HI Nisei Story web site. Shari Y. Tamashiro, Cybrarian
http://nisei.hawaii.edu
Successive generations have no framework for the stories of their grandparents; they have difficulty understanding the meaning and relevance of these personal narratives. Digital storytelling seeks to connect the past to the future, by providing a framework for successive generations to better understand the stories of the past.
The Hawaii Nisei Story, a Web-based exploration of the experiences of local Americans of Japanese Ancestry leading up to, during and following the Second World War, is an example of digital storytelling.
It comprises the life stories of Hawaii-born Nisei veterans. Some well-known, some less so, these stories – drawn from oral interviews with veterans of the 100th Infantry Battalion, the 442nd RCT, the 1399th Engineering Construction Battalion, the Military Intelligence Service and the Varsity Victory Volunteers – are deepened, complemented and complicated by the seldom heard stories of the veterans' wives and families.
. . . Come see their stories
5 pm – PANEL DISCUSSION: Hear from the veterans themselves.
Moderator: Ted T. Tsukiyama
This panel discussion with 100th/442nd RCT veterans will cover their experiences from the attack on Pearl Harbor to their return home. Hear their stories and meet these heroes. Panelists include: Genro Kashiwa, Bert Nishimura, Ron Oba and Don Shimazu.
. . . Come hear their stories
7:30 pm – HONORING THE LEGACY: Award-winning storyteller Alton Takiyama-Chung performs a tribute to the 442nd RCT.
http://www.altonchung.com/
Coming off of his sold-out, standing room only show "Okage Sama De" (I am what I am, because of you), Alton Chung returns home to perform a tribute to the 442
nd RCT. Alton gives voice to the stories of the men of the 100th/442nd in a mesmerizing performance.
. . . Come experience the magic
** Alton will also be performing at KapiolaniCC on April 3, 2008 at 11:30 am.
From my blurry friend (blurry like a propeller blade), Shari Tamashiro.
442nd RCT EXHIBIT - Honoring the Legacy
Kapiolani Community College Lama Library
March 24, 2008 to April 17, 2008
The sacrifice and bravery displayed by the 442nd Regimental Combat Team earned them the distinction of the most decorated unit for its size and length of service in the history of the U.S. Military. The 442nd RCT participated in "seven major campaigns in Italy and France, received seven Presidential Distinguished Unit Citations, and suffered 9,486 casualties and was awarded 18,143 individual decorations." (Selective Service System)
"The heroic exploits of the Japanese American soldier should be an inspiration to all of what courage, loyalty, honesty and devotion to America and its democratic ideals can achieve." – General Mark Clark
From March 24 to April 17, 2008, KCC Library will be presenting an exhibit honoring the 100th/442nd RCT. It also commemorates their 65th anniversary. The exhibit will feature artifacts and memorabilia from the 442nd Veterans Club Archive and Learning Center, as well as special displays on the 442nd Antitank Company, 232nd Combat Engineers, 442nd Medics, and 522nd Artillery. Additionally, the exhibit will contain a historical review and stories featuring the men of the 100th/442nd.
Lama Library Hours: March 24 – March 28: 8 am – 4 pmMarch 31 - April 17: 7:30 am – 7 pm (M-TH), 7:30 am – 4 pm (Fridays). Closed Saturday and Sunday.
Map: http://kcc.hawaii.edu/object/lamamap.html
PRESERVING AND SHARING THE LEGACY CELEBRATION
March 28, 2008, Lama Library
2 pm - 4 pm - Reception for nisei veterans. Come see the exhibit and learn how the Hawaii nisei legacy is being preserved and shared using digital storytelling.
RSVP to Shari Tamashiro at 808.734.9562 or sharit@hawaii.edu by March 24th. Parking instructions will be provided. Please indicate if handicap accommodations are required.
2:30 pm – PRESENTATION: Digital Storytelling and the HI Nisei Story web site. Shari Y. Tamashiro, Cybrarian
http://nisei.hawaii.edu
Successive generations have no framework for the stories of their grandparents; they have difficulty understanding the meaning and relevance of these personal narratives. Digital storytelling seeks to connect the past to the future, by providing a framework for successive generations to better understand the stories of the past.
The Hawaii Nisei Story, a Web-based exploration of the experiences of local Americans of Japanese Ancestry leading up to, during and following the Second World War, is an example of digital storytelling.
It comprises the life stories of Hawaii-born Nisei veterans. Some well-known, some less so, these stories – drawn from oral interviews with veterans of the 100th Infantry Battalion, the 442nd RCT, the 1399th Engineering Construction Battalion, the Military Intelligence Service and the Varsity Victory Volunteers – are deepened, complemented and complicated by the seldom heard stories of the veterans' wives and families.
. . . Come see their stories
5 pm – PANEL DISCUSSION: Hear from the veterans themselves.
Moderator: Ted T. Tsukiyama
This panel discussion with 100th/442nd RCT veterans will cover their experiences from the attack on Pearl Harbor to their return home. Hear their stories and meet these heroes. Panelists include: Genro Kashiwa, Bert Nishimura, Ron Oba and Don Shimazu.
. . . Come hear their stories
7:30 pm – HONORING THE LEGACY: Award-winning storyteller Alton Takiyama-Chung performs a tribute to the 442nd RCT.
http://www.altonchung.com/
Coming off of his sold-out, standing room only show "Okage Sama De" (I am what I am, because of you), Alton Chung returns home to perform a tribute to the 442
nd RCT. Alton gives voice to the stories of the men of the 100th/442nd in a mesmerizing performance.
. . . Come experience the magic
** Alton will also be performing at KapiolaniCC on April 3, 2008 at 11:30 am.
The Oedible Complex
Sometimes ideas come to me in the form of wordplays, slips of the tongue, puns. A couple of days, somehow, when one of my profs mentioned that something was "edible," I imagined that he'd said that it was Oedipal... And thus, the current pun.
[Another example, one which I may have posted previously, was this stupid (and as it turns out, totally unoriginal) pun: "Eros by any other name" (actually sounds like the way someone with a heavy Filipino accent would say the true line...).]
Anyway, the trick about these things is to make it meaningful, and not just some gimmick... So I've been kind of beating my head about it. And then, in a way, it occurred to me. I recall something I'd written for a Religion class, something about how Oedipus (whom I have always held a certain sympathy for [perhaps sympathy is too light a word]) united the community of Thebes by being the "double-crosser." Let me see if I can find the passage... Okay, found it... It's long, bear with me:
---
The notion of the fold is interesting. A fold creates an inside and an outside that communicates through the homogeneous fabric. However, it would be untrue to view the fold of the word as being an attempt by it to cut itself off completely from that original fabric. It is true that the word is involved, as we have said, in the act of cutting, in "meaning." However, that cutting is never complete; in fact, it would be quite true to say that the word does not mean to make a complete cut. The word needs the homogeneous fabric that it abjects and folds.
The need of the structure for its own want or absence is aptly expressed in the enigmatic story that de Certeau recounts, that of the "Idiot Woman." That woman, de Certeau notes, is the absence about which the community of nuns is formed. "Already when questioned about the 'lack' around which the representation of the convent was organized, they used the significant formulation: 'We have an idiot within.' This could also mean: it is our innermost secret, a madness within ourselves." (Michel de Certeau, "The Mystic Fable: Volume One, the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Century, pg. 37)
Related to this story is that other one, so central to psychoanalytic theory: Oedipus Rex. He is the Pharmakos, the poison-cure and the scapegoat. He is the outside (as exile) that becomes an inside (as king), who through his own desire to know, becomes outside once again. He is the one that crosses the threshold of the fold of Thebes twice. Through this double-crossing, Thebes is purified. Why?
Oedipus is that in-between man who takes upon himself the sins that each and every member of the fold feels. He himself seems pure and innocent as milk (or at least, he "means" well); yet, in the stomach of that tempted community, he becomes the milk that is used to induce a vomiting of poisonous temptation. "The mainspring of the tragedy lies in that ambiguity; prohibition and ideal are joined in a single character in order to signify that the speaking being has no space of his own but stands on a fragile threshold as if stranded on account of an impossible demarcation." (Julia Kristeva, Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection, p. 84-85) Oedipus, the transparent man who crosses the borders of Thebes (and hence, crosses every member of Thebes), becomes the opacity that binds the community together in its fear of him. He becomes the externalized object of fear that allows everyone else to pretend that what he is is not within themselves as well.
A final interesting story from a questionable source (a horror movie, Howling VI) must be told in this context. A nun once went mad in that fold of the sheep, the Church. This nun would walk about, mumbling the ominous phrase, "We are all in fear, we are all in fear," with a look of utter terror upon her face. After she died, an investigative reporter on vacation became interested in her story, and tried to find out why she had gone mad. One night, she read the transcript of the phrase over and over again. By a slip of the tongue, she discovered what the nun had been trying to say all along: "Werewolf in here." In that instant, the reporter realized that every single member of that community was a werewolf...
---
Okay, not entirely an Oedible Complex; in fact, that's the crux. Oedipus cannot be digested and absorbed; he might be palatable going down, but "inside", by what he is, he "upsets" our stomach, and forces himself up and out again...
Anyways, just random thoughts.
[Another example, one which I may have posted previously, was this stupid (and as it turns out, totally unoriginal) pun: "Eros by any other name" (actually sounds like the way someone with a heavy Filipino accent would say the true line...).]
Anyway, the trick about these things is to make it meaningful, and not just some gimmick... So I've been kind of beating my head about it. And then, in a way, it occurred to me. I recall something I'd written for a Religion class, something about how Oedipus (whom I have always held a certain sympathy for [perhaps sympathy is too light a word]) united the community of Thebes by being the "double-crosser." Let me see if I can find the passage... Okay, found it... It's long, bear with me:
---
The notion of the fold is interesting. A fold creates an inside and an outside that communicates through the homogeneous fabric. However, it would be untrue to view the fold of the word as being an attempt by it to cut itself off completely from that original fabric. It is true that the word is involved, as we have said, in the act of cutting, in "meaning." However, that cutting is never complete; in fact, it would be quite true to say that the word does not mean to make a complete cut. The word needs the homogeneous fabric that it abjects and folds.
The need of the structure for its own want or absence is aptly expressed in the enigmatic story that de Certeau recounts, that of the "Idiot Woman." That woman, de Certeau notes, is the absence about which the community of nuns is formed. "Already when questioned about the 'lack' around which the representation of the convent was organized, they used the significant formulation: 'We have an idiot within.' This could also mean: it is our innermost secret, a madness within ourselves." (Michel de Certeau, "The Mystic Fable: Volume One, the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Century, pg. 37)
Related to this story is that other one, so central to psychoanalytic theory: Oedipus Rex. He is the Pharmakos, the poison-cure and the scapegoat. He is the outside (as exile) that becomes an inside (as king), who through his own desire to know, becomes outside once again. He is the one that crosses the threshold of the fold of Thebes twice. Through this double-crossing, Thebes is purified. Why?
Oedipus is that in-between man who takes upon himself the sins that each and every member of the fold feels. He himself seems pure and innocent as milk (or at least, he "means" well); yet, in the stomach of that tempted community, he becomes the milk that is used to induce a vomiting of poisonous temptation. "The mainspring of the tragedy lies in that ambiguity; prohibition and ideal are joined in a single character in order to signify that the speaking being has no space of his own but stands on a fragile threshold as if stranded on account of an impossible demarcation." (Julia Kristeva, Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection, p. 84-85) Oedipus, the transparent man who crosses the borders of Thebes (and hence, crosses every member of Thebes), becomes the opacity that binds the community together in its fear of him. He becomes the externalized object of fear that allows everyone else to pretend that what he is is not within themselves as well.
A final interesting story from a questionable source (a horror movie, Howling VI) must be told in this context. A nun once went mad in that fold of the sheep, the Church. This nun would walk about, mumbling the ominous phrase, "We are all in fear, we are all in fear," with a look of utter terror upon her face. After she died, an investigative reporter on vacation became interested in her story, and tried to find out why she had gone mad. One night, she read the transcript of the phrase over and over again. By a slip of the tongue, she discovered what the nun had been trying to say all along: "Werewolf in here." In that instant, the reporter realized that every single member of that community was a werewolf...
---
Okay, not entirely an Oedible Complex; in fact, that's the crux. Oedipus cannot be digested and absorbed; he might be palatable going down, but "inside", by what he is, he "upsets" our stomach, and forces himself up and out again...
Anyways, just random thoughts.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Aiden
Aiden, for some reason, calls pizza hut "pizza cabin." I'm not sure where he gets this from. No one has admitted to infecting him with this little mistake. Aiden also insists that "Burger King" is "Booger King," and if you attempt to correct him, he will shout you down. "No! it's Booger King!"
Aiden seems to be left-handed. That's the hand that he writes with, and sometimes eats with. But then again, I've seen him slide in his right hand every now and then. Granted, he's not precisely drawing or writing anything intelligible yet (his favorite recurring theme is this circular scrawl which he proudly points to and says "That's a whirlpool!"), but it makes me wonder. Left-handed kids do have to take a different path, it seems... This really gets to be a problem, now that we are trying to teach our kids to play the violin. Willow, who was initially really reluctant about playing it, seems to be now so enthusiastic that she urges us to practice violin nightly. Aiden, who was initially somewhat enthusiastic, now seems uninterested to the point where he seems ADHD... He is being encouraged to play by holding the bow in his RIGHT hand, despite his apparent penchant for preferring the left. So far, it's okay, but at times, I wonder if we're doing more harm than good...
Aiden is a real flirt. He is truly reminiscent of a puppy dog. He is playful and mischievous, but he is definitely not independent. He requires and demands a lot of attention and affection. Aiden "performs" for cute little girls, and on occasion, attractive women; he singles them out, and then rushes up to talk to them, to joke with them, to dance for them. Jeez, he's only 3. I wonder what he'll be like when his hormones really kick in... (Was I like this? Nooo....)
Aiden is Gaellic for "Fire." Ai (pronounced Ei) can be represented by a Japanese Kanji meaning "Bright, Brilliant" and Den can be represented by a Japanese Kanji meaning "Continuous, Passed on, etc." When he was born in June, Waianae was suffering yet again from one of its brush fires. I couldn't help but think that the name we chose for him, and the blazes in Waianae were somehow related (sort of in the fashion of the Police's song, "Many Miles Away"). That is, Aiden's recurrent and blazing temper tantrums manifested in another fire out on the West Side... In the beginning, I had a hard time tolerating his tantrums (ME, who pride myself as being especially patient and tolerant [read: lazy]). But Aiden has since calmed down, to the point of being willful, but not a conflagaration...
Aiden seems to be left-handed. That's the hand that he writes with, and sometimes eats with. But then again, I've seen him slide in his right hand every now and then. Granted, he's not precisely drawing or writing anything intelligible yet (his favorite recurring theme is this circular scrawl which he proudly points to and says "That's a whirlpool!"), but it makes me wonder. Left-handed kids do have to take a different path, it seems... This really gets to be a problem, now that we are trying to teach our kids to play the violin. Willow, who was initially really reluctant about playing it, seems to be now so enthusiastic that she urges us to practice violin nightly. Aiden, who was initially somewhat enthusiastic, now seems uninterested to the point where he seems ADHD... He is being encouraged to play by holding the bow in his RIGHT hand, despite his apparent penchant for preferring the left. So far, it's okay, but at times, I wonder if we're doing more harm than good...
Aiden is a real flirt. He is truly reminiscent of a puppy dog. He is playful and mischievous, but he is definitely not independent. He requires and demands a lot of attention and affection. Aiden "performs" for cute little girls, and on occasion, attractive women; he singles them out, and then rushes up to talk to them, to joke with them, to dance for them. Jeez, he's only 3. I wonder what he'll be like when his hormones really kick in... (Was I like this? Nooo....)
Aiden is Gaellic for "Fire." Ai (pronounced Ei) can be represented by a Japanese Kanji meaning "Bright, Brilliant" and Den can be represented by a Japanese Kanji meaning "Continuous, Passed on, etc." When he was born in June, Waianae was suffering yet again from one of its brush fires. I couldn't help but think that the name we chose for him, and the blazes in Waianae were somehow related (sort of in the fashion of the Police's song, "Many Miles Away"). That is, Aiden's recurrent and blazing temper tantrums manifested in another fire out on the West Side... In the beginning, I had a hard time tolerating his tantrums (ME, who pride myself as being especially patient and tolerant [read: lazy]). But Aiden has since calmed down, to the point of being willful, but not a conflagaration...
impressions
Just a collection of random impressions, thoughts.
...I was walking on a sidewalk near Chinatown, and noticed that faintly sharp scent which I have come to associate with pigeons. The sidewalk I was on had, in fact, been lambasted (sp?) repeatedly by birdshit, in countless white splatters. As I stared at the birdshit, I noticed subtle patterns. The "pointilist" pigeons had relieved themselves from, of course, the branches of the trees above. It was difficult, but if I concentrated, I could almost match the shifting shadows of the branches with the forms of the birdshit that had dropped from them...
...Lynn mentioned that, when we were dancing (like when was that???), she wished that she could stand on my feet. It made her feel like we were more connected. "Holding hands is nice," she said (I'm paraphrasing), "but if I stand on your feet, it's like we're 'holding feet.'" (Hmm... that sort of came out wrong, sounds pretty disgusting, but you get the idea). Then, when she tried, she realized that it wasn't quite so nice; because of the sharpness of my talon-like toenails, and the raised and uneven ridges of my extensor tendons (on the tops of my feet), she felt like she was standing on eggshells, from eggs made of warped rubber and rock fragments...
...poor Algernon is either dead or free (maybe both). I had just bought a SAM cage (Small Animal M... Module?), this plastic "house" with all of these detachable fittings, like one that was an exercise wheel, and another that was a ringed tunnel... Trouble was, despite the new cage, his shit and pee still stank something awful, like a blast of ammonia in the face. So, for Willow's b-day party, we put Algernon and his cage outside, in our backyard (he had stayed out for many months previously, but in a glass fishtank with a screen top). The stupid feral cats that roam the valley behind our house crept into our backyard and, after feasting themselves on the garbage (which they pulled out of our garbage can), they figured out a way to "detach" one of the modules (the ringed tunnel) and soon afterwards, probably figured out a way to "detach" Algernon's cute mouse-head from his long scaly tail. I didn't tell Willow or Aiden Algernon's likely fate- I lied and said that Algernon was a very smart mouse who figured out how to get out of the cage, and that he was likely out in the valley behind our house with some other mice he'd made friends with... The kids were fine with that; they agreed that Algernon had been a smart mouse, and yes, he was probably better off playing with other mice his own age. Being a parent involves such terrible deceit, always delivered with such deadpan expressions...
...I was walking on a sidewalk near Chinatown, and noticed that faintly sharp scent which I have come to associate with pigeons. The sidewalk I was on had, in fact, been lambasted (sp?) repeatedly by birdshit, in countless white splatters. As I stared at the birdshit, I noticed subtle patterns. The "pointilist" pigeons had relieved themselves from, of course, the branches of the trees above. It was difficult, but if I concentrated, I could almost match the shifting shadows of the branches with the forms of the birdshit that had dropped from them...
...Lynn mentioned that, when we were dancing (like when was that???), she wished that she could stand on my feet. It made her feel like we were more connected. "Holding hands is nice," she said (I'm paraphrasing), "but if I stand on your feet, it's like we're 'holding feet.'" (Hmm... that sort of came out wrong, sounds pretty disgusting, but you get the idea). Then, when she tried, she realized that it wasn't quite so nice; because of the sharpness of my talon-like toenails, and the raised and uneven ridges of my extensor tendons (on the tops of my feet), she felt like she was standing on eggshells, from eggs made of warped rubber and rock fragments...
...poor Algernon is either dead or free (maybe both). I had just bought a SAM cage (Small Animal M... Module?), this plastic "house" with all of these detachable fittings, like one that was an exercise wheel, and another that was a ringed tunnel... Trouble was, despite the new cage, his shit and pee still stank something awful, like a blast of ammonia in the face. So, for Willow's b-day party, we put Algernon and his cage outside, in our backyard (he had stayed out for many months previously, but in a glass fishtank with a screen top). The stupid feral cats that roam the valley behind our house crept into our backyard and, after feasting themselves on the garbage (which they pulled out of our garbage can), they figured out a way to "detach" one of the modules (the ringed tunnel) and soon afterwards, probably figured out a way to "detach" Algernon's cute mouse-head from his long scaly tail. I didn't tell Willow or Aiden Algernon's likely fate- I lied and said that Algernon was a very smart mouse who figured out how to get out of the cage, and that he was likely out in the valley behind our house with some other mice he'd made friends with... The kids were fine with that; they agreed that Algernon had been a smart mouse, and yes, he was probably better off playing with other mice his own age. Being a parent involves such terrible deceit, always delivered with such deadpan expressions...
Friday, March 7, 2008
from "Fear and Trembling," by Soren Kierkegaard
".... just as God created man and woman, so he created the hero and the poet or orator. The poet or orator can do nothing that the hero does; he can only admire, love, and delight in him. Yet he, too, is happy- no less than that one is, for the hero is, so to speak, his better nature, with which he is enamored- yet happy that the other is not himself, that his love can be admiration. He is recollection's genius. He can do nothing but bring to mind what has been done, can do nothing but admire what has been done; he takes nothing of his own but is zealous for what has been entrusted. He follows his heart's desire, but when he has found the object of his search, he roams about to every man's door with song and speech so that all may admire the hero as he does, may be proud of the hero as he is. This is his occupation, his humble task; this is his fiathful service in the house of the hero. If he remains true to his love in this way, if he contends night and day against the craftiness of oblivion, which wants to trick him out of his hero, then he has fulfilled his task, then he is gathered together with the hero, who has loved him just as faithfully, for the poet is, so to speak, the hero's better nature, powerless, to be sure, just as a memory is, but also transfigured just as a memory is. Therefore, no one who was great will be forgotten, and even though it takes time, even though a cloud of misunderstanding takes away the hero, his lover will nevertheless come, and the longer the passage of time, the more faithfully he adheres to him."
... about Abraham, the "hero" who demonstrated the "insurpassability" of faith.
... about Abraham, the "hero" who demonstrated the "insurpassability" of faith.
Another seminal passage from Freud (Beyond the Pleasure Principle)
"Let us picture a living organism in its most simplified possible form as an undifferentiated vesicle of a substance that is susceptible to stimulation. Then the surface turned towards the external world will from its very situation be differentiated and will serve as an organ for receiving stimuli.... It would be easy to suppose, then, that as a result of the ceaseless impact of external stimuli on the surface of the vesicle, its substance to a certain depth may have become permanently modified, so that excitatory processes run a different course in it from what they run in the deeper layers. A crust would thus be formed which would at last have been so thoroughly 'baked through' by stimulation that it would present the most favourable possible conditions for the reception of stimuli and become incapable of any further modification...."
"But we have more to say of the living vesicle with its receptive cortical layer. This little fragment of living substance is suspended in the middle of an external world charged with the most powerful energies; and it would be killed by the stimulation emanating from these if it were not provided with a protective shield against stimuli. It acquires the shield in this way: its outermost surface ceases to have the structure proper to living matter, becomes to some degree inorganic and thenceforward functions as a special envelope or membrane resistant to stimuli. In consequence, the energies of the external world are able to pass into the next underlying layers, which have remained living, with only a fragment of their original intensity; and these layers can devote themselves, behind the protective shield, to the reception of the amounts of stimulus which have been allowed through it. BY ITS DEATH, the outer layer has saved all the deeper ones from a similar fate- unless, that is to say, stimuli reach it which are so strong that they break through the protective shield. PROTECTION AGAINST stimuli is an almost more important function for the living organism than RECEPTION OF stimuli...." (p. 20, 21)
"But we have more to say of the living vesicle with its receptive cortical layer. This little fragment of living substance is suspended in the middle of an external world charged with the most powerful energies; and it would be killed by the stimulation emanating from these if it were not provided with a protective shield against stimuli. It acquires the shield in this way: its outermost surface ceases to have the structure proper to living matter, becomes to some degree inorganic and thenceforward functions as a special envelope or membrane resistant to stimuli. In consequence, the energies of the external world are able to pass into the next underlying layers, which have remained living, with only a fragment of their original intensity; and these layers can devote themselves, behind the protective shield, to the reception of the amounts of stimulus which have been allowed through it. BY ITS DEATH, the outer layer has saved all the deeper ones from a similar fate- unless, that is to say, stimuli reach it which are so strong that they break through the protective shield. PROTECTION AGAINST stimuli is an almost more important function for the living organism than RECEPTION OF stimuli...." (p. 20, 21)
A seminal passage from Freud's "Beyond the Pleasure Principle"
"...Those instincts are therefore bound to give a deceptive appearance of being forces tending towards change and progress, whilst in fact they are merely seeking to reach an ancient goal by paths alike old and new. Moreover it is possible to specify this final goal of all organic striving. It would be in contradiction to the conservative nature of the instincts if the goal of life were a state of things which had never yet been attained. On the contrary, it must be an OLD state of things, an initial state from which the living entity has at one time or other departed and to which it is striving to return by circuitous paths along which its development leads. If we are to take it as a truth that knows no exception that everything living dies for INTERNAL reasons- becomes inorganic once again- then we shall be compelled to say that 'THE AIM OF ALL LIFE IS DEATH' and, looking backwards, that 'INANIMATE THINGS EXISTED BEFORE LIVING ONES.'"
I ask
I ask the words to convey me
but they don't know where to go
and they have no wheels to spin
on water, or air, or clouds
or whatever groundless claims
I make of me, or mine, or all.
I ask the ears to in-form me
to drink me in and shape me
pass me through the
coronet-funnels
narrow me into thread
a spinning winding path
into somewhere else to hide,
and profligate, and pretend to be.
I ask the world to confide in me
to share with me a secret or two
what is the end of enduring,
who can stand understanding,
but mostly, why this feeling is,
when words falter
and no one to hear.
but they don't know where to go
and they have no wheels to spin
on water, or air, or clouds
or whatever groundless claims
I make of me, or mine, or all.
I ask the ears to in-form me
to drink me in and shape me
pass me through the
coronet-funnels
narrow me into thread
a spinning winding path
into somewhere else to hide,
and profligate, and pretend to be.
I ask the world to confide in me
to share with me a secret or two
what is the end of enduring,
who can stand understanding,
but mostly, why this feeling is,
when words falter
and no one to hear.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
85/10/5
I heard in my SPED class that there is a social psychology concept known simply as the 85/10/5 ratio. In any given population, if there are rules or laws set to govern that population: 85% will be like sheep, and "obey" without question; 10% will ask "Why," and, if given a fair and reasonable answer, will obey; and 5% will be chronic rule-breakers.
Where do you fall?
Where do you fall?
Baby Nicholas Apollo Xu
Last night, I visited my friends Jessica and Min, and their newborn baby, Nicholas Apollo Xu (I know, I know, a bit much...). He was born, by the way, on MY BIRTHDAY (at roughly 10:30 pm). Thank god, because in a little over an hour, he would've been born on Girl's Day...
Nicholas is a cute baby. I couldn't decide if he looked like Jessica, or Min. I guess, as Jessica mentioned, his ears looked like Min's (big). He seemed quiet at first, until I started approaching him; then, he woke up and started making some clear cries. Min began singing a lullaby (some Beethoven tune), and miracle of miracles, he went back to sleep (or at least quieted down). Apparently, Min has been applying the headphones to the womb, so from now on, I suppose, classical music will remind Nicholas of a red-walled room from now on...
I may not have mentioned it, but there was a bit of a scare during the delivery. At one point, Nicholas's heartrate slowed dangerously. When I heard that news, I actually prayed... Usually, in those desperate moments, my prayers tend to sound more like threats, like: "God, if you allow this to happen, I will never believe in you again." As if He (he?) would ever care for the worship of a piece of turd like myself...
But it worked (because of, or in spite of). And now, I say, thank God.
Nicholas is a cute baby. I couldn't decide if he looked like Jessica, or Min. I guess, as Jessica mentioned, his ears looked like Min's (big). He seemed quiet at first, until I started approaching him; then, he woke up and started making some clear cries. Min began singing a lullaby (some Beethoven tune), and miracle of miracles, he went back to sleep (or at least quieted down). Apparently, Min has been applying the headphones to the womb, so from now on, I suppose, classical music will remind Nicholas of a red-walled room from now on...
I may not have mentioned it, but there was a bit of a scare during the delivery. At one point, Nicholas's heartrate slowed dangerously. When I heard that news, I actually prayed... Usually, in those desperate moments, my prayers tend to sound more like threats, like: "God, if you allow this to happen, I will never believe in you again." As if He (he?) would ever care for the worship of a piece of turd like myself...
But it worked (because of, or in spite of). And now, I say, thank God.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Nene geese
Nene geese are Hawaiian geese that once were Canadian geese, but then I guess got tired of flying back to their colder climes. I think a few of them got smart and said, "Hey, waitaminit waitaminit, I mean, what's the point? Look, we got it good here. We lie around, get a tan, snack on some tasty bugs... Why we gotta launch off, fly half a gajillion miles over cold ocean (NO LAND IN SIGHT, NO REST FOR OUR WINGS FOR FRICKING WEEKS!), just so we can do it all over again next year??? Huh??? Tell me that. Let's just huddle up here for the whole freaking year!" And before you know it, zap, they were their own species. Nene. I don't know what it means in Hawaiian, but in Japanese, it means "GO TO SLEEP!" Like I am always saying to Willow and Aiden: GO NENE!!!
The lazy geese. The sleeping geese. I wonder if they ever regret staying here. Like they start thinking, "Jeez, you know, this place is really a rock. The other day, I saw this pretty hot chic, but when she turned around, hey, you know what, it was my cousin! I mean, I'm into family harmony, and everything, but I gotta draw the line somewhere! But then I realized, jeez, EVERYONE on this stinking island is family! Where's a bachelor goose to go?" And then he starts flapping his wings, which have genetically weakened, and feels the air wheeze out of his lungs, which have genetically shrunk, and he wonders if it wasn't a bad idea to travel every now and then, even if it was across that big blue divide...
But, ah... Nene. Sleep. Tomorrow is tomorrow. And I'm tired today.
The lazy geese. The sleeping geese. I wonder if they ever regret staying here. Like they start thinking, "Jeez, you know, this place is really a rock. The other day, I saw this pretty hot chic, but when she turned around, hey, you know what, it was my cousin! I mean, I'm into family harmony, and everything, but I gotta draw the line somewhere! But then I realized, jeez, EVERYONE on this stinking island is family! Where's a bachelor goose to go?" And then he starts flapping his wings, which have genetically weakened, and feels the air wheeze out of his lungs, which have genetically shrunk, and he wonders if it wasn't a bad idea to travel every now and then, even if it was across that big blue divide...
But, ah... Nene. Sleep. Tomorrow is tomorrow. And I'm tired today.
Epoch Ellipse
For some reason, I got to thinking of Apocalypse, how it sounds like other things. I REALLY liked the way it sounded in "Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome," when those orphaned kids in the valley started saying "Pocky Clips" or something or other. But anyway, me liking theories on the cyclical nature of time, I thought it would be interesting to think of it as "Epoch Ellipse." Like "apocalypse" occurs whenever an "epoch" "ellipses" (that is, time cycles back upon itself). Maybe some sort of scientist will come up with the theory of "Epoch Ellipse," saying that all time and history has a shape, but until NOW, we haven't been able to determine it yet... i.e. is it round? If it is a closed (cyclical) shape, how do we determine its starting and ending point (i.e., what is the unit that repeats)? And if it is a closed shape, what does it revolve around? What is the (absent) center around which history rotates? In discovering the "Epoch Ellipse," perhaps this scientist will say that the breakthrough occurred when he theorized that the "absent" center of history was not one, but TWO. Two critical "things" that formed a center about which events turned, eventually forming an elliptical shape. The ellipse, being a somewhat oblong shape, made it difficult/impossible to perceive it; but once the theory of "two centers" was formulated, it was not so hard to see... And it was also not very hard to see the eventuality of the ellipse closing on itself, for events to encounter the "Epoch ellipse," the end of time itself...
I have strange thoughts at times, mostly based on random wordplays. But there is a method to the madness. I think for this, the tie was Mel Gibson... In explicus: his movie "Apocalypto"; the mention of apocalypse as "Pocky Clips" in "Mad Max," itself a movie about the post-apocalyptic world...
Oh well.
Come to think of it, a far better play would have been "Epoch Eclipse." No need to mention messy shapes or the cycling around of history... Self-explanatory really. Time reaching its own eclipse.
I have strange thoughts at times, mostly based on random wordplays. But there is a method to the madness. I think for this, the tie was Mel Gibson... In explicus: his movie "Apocalypto"; the mention of apocalypse as "Pocky Clips" in "Mad Max," itself a movie about the post-apocalyptic world...
Oh well.
Come to think of it, a far better play would have been "Epoch Eclipse." No need to mention messy shapes or the cycling around of history... Self-explanatory really. Time reaching its own eclipse.
March
March depresses me for some reason. It could be because my birthday is in March, and at my age, birthdays are just a reminder of old age and mortality. But it seems more than that. It is a physical lethargy that seems to overcome me this time of year.
I started off the Sunday with the obligatory visit to the local Tenrikyo church. I got to play the fue for the first part, and dance (awkwardly, always glancing to my right at the head church minister for cues) the second part. Then, I made my hasty retreat. Off to do a couple of Sunday treatments...
All the while, my friend Min and his wife Jessica are in labor (I should rephrase that; Jessica is in labor, Min is just walking around with his heart stuck in his throat; somewhat the opposite sort of obstruction). I'm rooting for today, not only because it's MY BIRTHDAY, and what a cool kid he'll turn out to be if he's born today (in spite of my example), but also because if he's born tomorrow, why, he'll be a boy born on Girl's Day (some have posited the very proximity of my b-day to girl's day as explaining something, I'm not sure what...).
I stopped by Min's, where his father and mother in law are hanging out, waiting for any news. Min apparently picked up a free monitor from CompUSA, which is closing down. He wanted me to pick it up from the apartment, to make as much room as possible for baby. While I was there, I decided to assemble the crib we'd given him; jeez, it was "fun" (I mean it, it really was fun) assembling it with Jessica's dad, with me not being able to speak a word of relevant Chinese (outside of "Xie xie" or "Za jien"). I was actually speaking to them in JAPANESE for some reason (I guess it's an old habit). And then, what's worse, I started to GESTURE. Trying to be conversational, I decided to "gesture" Jessica's birth (because it's surely the topic on their minds). Don't ask. Just imagine playing Sharades and having to perform "birth"... I think I somehow got the message across, though not without some awkward laughter...
And then it was my birthday dinner over at Phuket Thai in Mililani, one of my favorite restaurants. My ma, pa, niece (Kathy) and nephew (Marcus) came, as did my own family unit... It was pretty pleasant... until a face from the past showed up. I won't mention his name, but let's say that he was once a pretty close friend of mine until we had a mutual falling out and parting of ways... He's the kind of person who you always feel somewhat insecure about, because (whether YOU're involved in it or not) he is always playing the COMPARISON game (like, do you measure up to ME???). I looked away, pretended not to see him, although I'm sure he saw ME. Thank god, we didn't make eye contact, and have to pass a message unspoken that way...
I should be old enough to be over such things, but I suppose I never outgrow certain situations, certain relationships. Or, let me amend that, maybe I HAVE outgrown them, and it's with a certain nostalgia that I look back upon old relationships, wondering, perhaps, if I reinstilled them, would I feel the same feelings, and thus, be young and immature and stupid again? Honestly, honestly, I'm just curious to see how he's doing, nothing more. I don't think my life has much room for any real "friendships" like that any more...
I often wonder what I will be like when I get old (like, duh, man, you ARE old). No, I mean really old. Like when everyone around me passes, and the family starts to wonder if I'm alright on my own, or if someone will have to come by to make sure my ass is wiped clean... Will I still be active in some way, relevant? Strong? Or will I be all about the yesterdays, the regrets, the happy days... (You know, maybe I already AM old; that's my preoccupation, my "pre" "occupation" nowadays! GULP.)
If no one needs me, then I think as an old man, I will go to a monastery and formally become a monk. I'll sit down facing a wall and contemplate the nature of my existence. And my kids and grandkids will come and visit me in the monastery, but since I'll say nothing, and just stare down at them from beneath my bushy eyebrows, they'll leave, imagining they encountered a bodhisattva, but really, really, knowing they encountered a doddering old fool who couldn't think of anything profound or meaningful to say...
... March. How it depresses me.
I started off the Sunday with the obligatory visit to the local Tenrikyo church. I got to play the fue for the first part, and dance (awkwardly, always glancing to my right at the head church minister for cues) the second part. Then, I made my hasty retreat. Off to do a couple of Sunday treatments...
All the while, my friend Min and his wife Jessica are in labor (I should rephrase that; Jessica is in labor, Min is just walking around with his heart stuck in his throat; somewhat the opposite sort of obstruction). I'm rooting for today, not only because it's MY BIRTHDAY, and what a cool kid he'll turn out to be if he's born today (in spite of my example), but also because if he's born tomorrow, why, he'll be a boy born on Girl's Day (some have posited the very proximity of my b-day to girl's day as explaining something, I'm not sure what...).
I stopped by Min's, where his father and mother in law are hanging out, waiting for any news. Min apparently picked up a free monitor from CompUSA, which is closing down. He wanted me to pick it up from the apartment, to make as much room as possible for baby. While I was there, I decided to assemble the crib we'd given him; jeez, it was "fun" (I mean it, it really was fun) assembling it with Jessica's dad, with me not being able to speak a word of relevant Chinese (outside of "Xie xie" or "Za jien"). I was actually speaking to them in JAPANESE for some reason (I guess it's an old habit). And then, what's worse, I started to GESTURE. Trying to be conversational, I decided to "gesture" Jessica's birth (because it's surely the topic on their minds). Don't ask. Just imagine playing Sharades and having to perform "birth"... I think I somehow got the message across, though not without some awkward laughter...
And then it was my birthday dinner over at Phuket Thai in Mililani, one of my favorite restaurants. My ma, pa, niece (Kathy) and nephew (Marcus) came, as did my own family unit... It was pretty pleasant... until a face from the past showed up. I won't mention his name, but let's say that he was once a pretty close friend of mine until we had a mutual falling out and parting of ways... He's the kind of person who you always feel somewhat insecure about, because (whether YOU're involved in it or not) he is always playing the COMPARISON game (like, do you measure up to ME???). I looked away, pretended not to see him, although I'm sure he saw ME. Thank god, we didn't make eye contact, and have to pass a message unspoken that way...
I should be old enough to be over such things, but I suppose I never outgrow certain situations, certain relationships. Or, let me amend that, maybe I HAVE outgrown them, and it's with a certain nostalgia that I look back upon old relationships, wondering, perhaps, if I reinstilled them, would I feel the same feelings, and thus, be young and immature and stupid again? Honestly, honestly, I'm just curious to see how he's doing, nothing more. I don't think my life has much room for any real "friendships" like that any more...
I often wonder what I will be like when I get old (like, duh, man, you ARE old). No, I mean really old. Like when everyone around me passes, and the family starts to wonder if I'm alright on my own, or if someone will have to come by to make sure my ass is wiped clean... Will I still be active in some way, relevant? Strong? Or will I be all about the yesterdays, the regrets, the happy days... (You know, maybe I already AM old; that's my preoccupation, my "pre" "occupation" nowadays! GULP.)
If no one needs me, then I think as an old man, I will go to a monastery and formally become a monk. I'll sit down facing a wall and contemplate the nature of my existence. And my kids and grandkids will come and visit me in the monastery, but since I'll say nothing, and just stare down at them from beneath my bushy eyebrows, they'll leave, imagining they encountered a bodhisattva, but really, really, knowing they encountered a doddering old fool who couldn't think of anything profound or meaningful to say...
... March. How it depresses me.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)