i've been having a streak of bad luck.
i don't know if i'll survive it.
if there's one good thing about bad luck, though; you kinda stop resisting it after a while. when it happens, it's like, "oh, so you're gonna throw that wrench into my engine? well, okay. what do i do next?" i'm just in reaction mode, dealing with each new impossible threat. forget about breathing space, and sky...
i keep thinking about lynn, willow, aiden... i have to keep a smile on my face for them. and a space in my heart. literally. when they speak to me, when they want to play, i inhale, and "create" time for them. in my senior religion seminar on "time," my professor kept going on and on about how time as subjectively experienced could be endlessly distended. i think he was trying to show how we don't need gravity wells and such to demonstrate the folding and stretching of time and space; we each contain and experience time within ourselves differently, truncating it, unpacking it... anyway, to get back to the point: with those i love, i must clear a space and clear a moment. it is the most fundamental form of love and generosity.
i am tired though. concerns have crowded me in. it's not enough in this world to try to be a good person. you have to actually BE one. and even then, your survival, and the survival of those you love, is not guaranteed...
... in fact, perhaps, being good is the same as assuring your extinction.
***
i heard on last week's science friday that, according to calculations, wind power could supply all of our energy needs. of course, it has a substantial start-up and maintenance cost... but there is no carbon cost to it. and, what's more, the use of so many windmills would alter the weather- but in a good way. it would actually serve to disperse excess heat in the atmosphere...
on some other radio show this afternoon (don't know what it was called), there was a discussion on carbon sequestration. while it has its advocates (mainly those who are desperate to support coal), one of the speakers said, quite frankly, that it was the dumbest idea he's ever heard. this speaker mentioned that coal production will exhaust key reserves in twenty years at most, so even if the u.s. did develop and implement carbon sequestration technology, it would be a moot issue in a couple of decades. the speaker also mentioned that carbon sequestration would only take care of the combustion aspect of coal, and not deal with all the sins involved in the mining... some of those sins, he described in detail. coal towns are generally the poorest places in the nation, with substantial health issues. by some statistical analysis, the speaker said that the costs (in terms of overall casualties, along with some other figures) far outweighed the benefits in coal production...
maybe we will be living in a world that is similar to laputa (a hayao miyazaki film which i never saw in its entirety, but which did envision a whole lot of windmills)...
***
please, everyone. no matter how desperate things get in the next few years, please remember to keep your cool. be kind and be human. this will be our only way to combat the effects of "economic" global warming...
Monday, June 29, 2009
a couple of dreams
i had a dream about attempting to scale my way out of a well of sorts, behind a selfish older man. the well was used to dump corpses. somehow i and the other man had been dumped to the bottom alive, and had to "swim" our way up through bodies in varying states of decay. the older man then preceded me in painstakingly using hands and feet against the circular walls of the well to slowly scale upwards. somehow, there were corpses "stuck" up above in the well, awkwardly lodged. in any case, at one point, as the older man neared the top, he thoughtlessly (or perhaps on purpose) dislodged a full-bodied corpse, such that it fell a distance onto me, deep in the darkness. i warned him not to do it. but all of a sudden, i was slammed full on by a falling body, and this caused me to in turn fall all the way back into the pool of corpses below...
i also had a dream about following a magical shoreline, accompanied (sort of) by some older woman tourist. i pointed out the rich sealife that i could see: colorful fish and anemones. it was beautiful and peaceful. somehow, as the waters grew deeper, we entered an indoor place with smooth square tiles at shifting angles over the floors. the slope of the tiles rose and sank in waves. we scaled each wave with difficulty, and then slid down, only to face the next wave. it was difficult, and at times even precarious, but the old woman seemed generally encouraging. we eventually reached a dead end wall, and realized we had to go back...
i also had a dream about following a magical shoreline, accompanied (sort of) by some older woman tourist. i pointed out the rich sealife that i could see: colorful fish and anemones. it was beautiful and peaceful. somehow, as the waters grew deeper, we entered an indoor place with smooth square tiles at shifting angles over the floors. the slope of the tiles rose and sank in waves. we scaled each wave with difficulty, and then slid down, only to face the next wave. it was difficult, and at times even precarious, but the old woman seemed generally encouraging. we eventually reached a dead end wall, and realized we had to go back...
an inspirational article: about brian kajiyama
PAGE 8 TASH CONNECTIONS, NOVEMBER/DECEMBER 2005
“Dream It, See It,
Do It!”
BY BRIAN KAJIYAMA
Brian Kajiyama holds a Bachelor of
Arts degree and is currently a candidate
for Masters Degree in Counseling
Education at the University of Hawai‘i
in Honolulu.
Comments about this article may be
directed to Mr. Kajiyama at
kajiyama@hawaii.edu
On a sunny afternoon in Kailua,
Hawai‘i, I sat in my high school
history class listening to my
teacher talk about the importance of taking
school seriously if we planned to move
onto a college. I thought to myself, ‘Don’t
worry, I’ve been working towards that goal
ever since I was a kid in elementary school.’
The groundwork had been set from an
early age to help me navigate my journey
from high school to postsecondary
education. My experiences through the
infant stimulation program at Easter Seals,
coupled with the emphasis that my family
placed on education, all contributed to my
chosen educational path. There are four
main components that I feel contributed to
my progression to college from high school
(and receiving special education supports
during that time). Self-determination, self-
advocacy, empowerment, and support
systems are all integral pieces that allowed
for a successful transition.
Self-Determination
When I was a youngster attending elemen-
tary school, people would often ask me,
‘Brian, what do you want to do when you
grow up?’ My response would consistently
be, ‘I’m going to attend the University of
Hawai`i (UH) and play sports for them.’
(Most see someone who has a severe form
of cerebral palsy and uses a motorized
wheelchair as not your typical athletic type.)
Perhaps this mindset enabled me to
develop self-determination. I had
established a dream, to attend college. As I
got older, I soon found out what I needed
to do to make my dream become a reality.
Getting to college would not be easy; I
would need to deal with physical and
attitudinal barriers. I quickly learned that I
would need to work extremely hard, if not
harder than the next person.
However, I could clearly see myself
attending college at UH. I knew that I was
capable of working hard and could control
how much effort I put into reaching my
goal; I could either slack off or work really
hard. The choice was mine. Once I
pictured myself attending college, the next
stage of the process was to do everything I
could to make my dream a reality. This
image fostered the sense of self-determina-
tion that I would need in order to place
myself in a better position to fulfill my
goal.
I view self-determination as an internal
desire to accomplish a goal and doing
everything you can to persevere over any
obstacles that might hinder your progress.
Prior to the start of my junior year of high
school, I underwent back surgery to correct
the scoliosis that I had developed. This
surgical procedure entailed the insertion of
steel rods along my entire spine to
straighten it out -- a major undertaking to
say the least!. I anticipated missing only a
couple weeks of school. The best laid
plans often never go smoothly, thus you
always must prepare for anything. But, I
don’t think I could have prepared for what
was to come.
Due to complications as a result of the
surgery, I was unable to eat any food orally,
and had to be fed via a nasal-gastro (NG)
tube. For a 16-year old, this was an
extremely trying and traumatizing experi-
ence to go through. There I was, lying in
bed with the constant thought, inspite of
that NG, ‘I could eat an entire pizza! Give
me anything to eat!’
Each time I attempted to eat, I would
vomit, thus the NG tube became a
necessity if I was to receive any form of
nutrition. What happened was that my
intestines became stretched as I literally
grew a few inches after my spine was
straightened, so there was not enough space
for the food to pass through. The only
solution was to allow my intestines to open
up and this would be achieved through my
gaining weight. Any degree of weight gain
takes a really long time if it needs to be
done via a NG tube.
I was unable to eat for about two months,
but I always kept going to college at UH in
mind. I would attend classes at the
hospital, trying to keep up with the material
I was missing. Studying and learning is
made difficult when you’re not feeling your
best; but I was determined to keep up with
my peers. I knew I could not afford to let
an entire semester go to waste. By this
time, I had missed nearly an entire quarter
of high school.
Despite my absence from school, I
managed to keep up and turned in assign-
ments as best I could. As soon as my
intestines opened up enough to allow food
to pass through, the doctors had me eat a
lot of food. They wanted me to gain
enough weight to ensure that my intestine
would not close up again, so I vividly recall
eating ice cream sandwiches every hour for
days on end. That was the one and only
time that I could have been considered
heavy (normally I’m very thin), but I did
what I needed to do in order to get better.
I returned to school approximately two
weeks before the first quarter was to end. I
had lots of make up work to do, despite
attending the hospital’s school. Shriner’s
Hospital had their own school, and I
received services as detailed in my IEP.
There was no pressure from my teachers;
they did not lay down any ultimatums. In
their eyes, if I passed great, if not, I would
need to do remedial work. I knew I wanted
to graduate on time with all of my friends.
I also knew that I had college waiting in the
wings! I did everything I could to absorb
as much of the information that I needed
to within those two weeks. I had exams to
take and pass.
I passed all of my classes. That feeling was
so rewarding because I knew that my hard
work paid off, and I was well on my way to
achieving my goal of attending college.
Along this journey to college, I encoun-
tered other obstacles. These obstacles
required me to speak up for myself and
take on the role of a self-advocate.
Self-Advocacy
The ability to speak up for yourself when
needs arise can be referred to as self-
advocacy. This is definitely not an easy
characteristic to develop, as it forces you to
take risks and step out of your comfort
zone. I was not an outspoken person at all
in high school. In fact, I still would
consider myself to be more on the shy side
of the spectrum of personalities.
Although I had many teachers in high
school who were very supportive and
accommodating to ensure that I had all of
the tools and help to succeed, there were a
few instances where this was not the case.
My biology teacher during my sophomore
year of high school was nice, but not very
accommodating. A lot of material was
presented in class using an overhead
projector. As fast as I tried to write all of
the information down in my notebook, I
would miss key points. This had a direct
impact on my ability to excel on examina-
tions and quizzes. I was struggling.
I took the initiative to approach my teacher
to ask if I could receive copies of the
overheads. Her reply was simply, ‘No, this
is a college-prep course and college
professors won’t xerox things for you, so I
won’t.’ I found this response a bit upset-
ting, but I continued to strive to do my
best. I still was not doing well in this class,
even despite attending tutoring sessions
during recess.
Finally, I realized that I needed additional
support, so I consulted with my special
education resource teacher and explained
the situation. I concluded this discussion
by requesting a note taker. The next week,
I had a note taker and I began to slowly
grasp concepts more effectively and began
to do significantly better on my quizzes.
This example illustrates a form of self-
advocacy. I recognized a genuine need and
asked for appropriate support. I did
inform my parents, but they did not take
matters into their own hands and allowed
me to resolve the matter on my own.
However, I had the confidence and
comfort in knowing that I had their full
support should I require any assistance. I
took pride in knowing that I had a note
taker in my class due to the actions I
took! This incident led me to another
realization -- empowerment.
Empowerment
Despite having a significant disability, I
possessed a significant amount of power.
By simply speaking out for myself and
informing people of my needs, I was able
to receive the support I required to allow
me to succeed to my highest potential.
This feeling is referred to as “empower-
ment.”
Empowerment refers to the idea of
allowing people more responsibility to act
for themselves in order to achieve a goal.
Rather than placing control in the hands of
others, the locus of control is placed with
the individual. By demonstrating confi-
dence in someone, you empower. By
allowing someone to do a task on their
own, you empower. By allowing someone
to take risks by exploring new avenues or
opportunities, you empower.
I was fortunate that I was empowered
throughout high school. My special
education resource teacher, therapists, and
parents allowed me to control my own
destiny. If I chose not to study, they would
remind me that I had studies to do, but
they would not force me to study. I would
quickly find out that if I did not study, I
would suffer the consequences; in this case,
the consequence would be a less-than-
stellar grade. I knew full well that I needed
to maintain good grades if I was to
accomplish my goal of attending college. I
was also empowered by receiving appropri-
ate support services.
A fine line exists between receiving
adequate support and receiving too much
support. Receiving too much support
might seem great at the time. You might
be able to get away without working as hard
as you need to, but ultimately this ‘babying’
of sorts will hurt your chances of success.
You’ll expect these supports to be there all
the way through, when in reality you might
not really need them. Thus, it is extremely
important to be honest with yourself and
ask only for what you truly need.
At the same time, empowerment comes
through receiving adequate supports. My
parents empowered me by providing me
with a computer at home that I would use
to type my papers and communicate with
friends via e-mail. My therapists
empowered me by ensuring that my body
was strong enough and my muscles
maintained a good range of motion so I
would not become overly tight; I could sit
comfortably in class, which enhanced my
ability to learn. My doctors empowered me
by making sure I was healthy and received
whatever medication I needed to ensure
that I could attend school and be a
productive student. Empowerment
demonstrates how important a quality
support system can be. I was extremely
fortunate to have a fabulous support
system.
Support System
My main source of support came from
within my family. They helped me keep my
dream alive when I would go through
periods of doubt. ‘You can get through
this, Brian. We know you can!’ This is an
example of the type of positive reinforce-
ment that my parents would provide me.
This type of support was extremely
instrumental, especially when you were well
aware of societal perceptions that you
would not be able to transition into college
successfully because you have a significant
disability.
Through positive reinforcement, I was able
to develop a strong sense of self and
maintained a positive self-image. I never
doubted my abilities for long. I would catch
myself going off course and would tell
myself, ‘Brian, you will attend college. Just
keep working hard.’ This type of positive
self-talk might seem silly, but it’s really
effective, particularly during periods where
you might hear negative comments directed
toward you.
The therapists who worked with me,
including physical and occupational
therapists, were very helpful, as well. They
worked with me to figure out the best way
to make any accommodations I might need
for classes, whether it was adapting
materials to allow me to participate or by
suggesting a peer-support system whereby a
classmate might help me in the classroom.
All of these ideas were influential in
allowing me to maximize my potential as a
student.
During my senior year of high school, I
took the college entrance examination and
did not score as high as I would have liked,
so I took it a second time. My second
score was high enough to allow me to apply
to the University of Hawai‘i, and my strong
academic record helped to seal my dream
that I would attend college! I can vividly
recall receiving my acceptance letter from
UH.
It was at that point that I realized that I had
accomplished achieving my dream by first
visualizing it and then setting out to do
everything I needed to do to allow me to
be in the best possible position to make the
dream a reality. I’m living out my dream by
attending UH, and instead of being an
athlete I’m a very loyal fan. We must
dream big and not view altering our goals
as failing, but rather utilizing our unique
abilities in the best way possible. Dream it,
see it, and do it!”
“Dream It, See It,
Do It!”
BY BRIAN KAJIYAMA
Brian Kajiyama holds a Bachelor of
Arts degree and is currently a candidate
for Masters Degree in Counseling
Education at the University of Hawai‘i
in Honolulu.
Comments about this article may be
directed to Mr. Kajiyama at
kajiyama@hawaii.edu
On a sunny afternoon in Kailua,
Hawai‘i, I sat in my high school
history class listening to my
teacher talk about the importance of taking
school seriously if we planned to move
onto a college. I thought to myself, ‘Don’t
worry, I’ve been working towards that goal
ever since I was a kid in elementary school.’
The groundwork had been set from an
early age to help me navigate my journey
from high school to postsecondary
education. My experiences through the
infant stimulation program at Easter Seals,
coupled with the emphasis that my family
placed on education, all contributed to my
chosen educational path. There are four
main components that I feel contributed to
my progression to college from high school
(and receiving special education supports
during that time). Self-determination, self-
advocacy, empowerment, and support
systems are all integral pieces that allowed
for a successful transition.
Self-Determination
When I was a youngster attending elemen-
tary school, people would often ask me,
‘Brian, what do you want to do when you
grow up?’ My response would consistently
be, ‘I’m going to attend the University of
Hawai`i (UH) and play sports for them.’
(Most see someone who has a severe form
of cerebral palsy and uses a motorized
wheelchair as not your typical athletic type.)
Perhaps this mindset enabled me to
develop self-determination. I had
established a dream, to attend college. As I
got older, I soon found out what I needed
to do to make my dream become a reality.
Getting to college would not be easy; I
would need to deal with physical and
attitudinal barriers. I quickly learned that I
would need to work extremely hard, if not
harder than the next person.
However, I could clearly see myself
attending college at UH. I knew that I was
capable of working hard and could control
how much effort I put into reaching my
goal; I could either slack off or work really
hard. The choice was mine. Once I
pictured myself attending college, the next
stage of the process was to do everything I
could to make my dream a reality. This
image fostered the sense of self-determina-
tion that I would need in order to place
myself in a better position to fulfill my
goal.
I view self-determination as an internal
desire to accomplish a goal and doing
everything you can to persevere over any
obstacles that might hinder your progress.
Prior to the start of my junior year of high
school, I underwent back surgery to correct
the scoliosis that I had developed. This
surgical procedure entailed the insertion of
steel rods along my entire spine to
straighten it out -- a major undertaking to
say the least!. I anticipated missing only a
couple weeks of school. The best laid
plans often never go smoothly, thus you
always must prepare for anything. But, I
don’t think I could have prepared for what
was to come.
Due to complications as a result of the
surgery, I was unable to eat any food orally,
and had to be fed via a nasal-gastro (NG)
tube. For a 16-year old, this was an
extremely trying and traumatizing experi-
ence to go through. There I was, lying in
bed with the constant thought, inspite of
that NG, ‘I could eat an entire pizza! Give
me anything to eat!’
Each time I attempted to eat, I would
vomit, thus the NG tube became a
necessity if I was to receive any form of
nutrition. What happened was that my
intestines became stretched as I literally
grew a few inches after my spine was
straightened, so there was not enough space
for the food to pass through. The only
solution was to allow my intestines to open
up and this would be achieved through my
gaining weight. Any degree of weight gain
takes a really long time if it needs to be
done via a NG tube.
I was unable to eat for about two months,
but I always kept going to college at UH in
mind. I would attend classes at the
hospital, trying to keep up with the material
I was missing. Studying and learning is
made difficult when you’re not feeling your
best; but I was determined to keep up with
my peers. I knew I could not afford to let
an entire semester go to waste. By this
time, I had missed nearly an entire quarter
of high school.
Despite my absence from school, I
managed to keep up and turned in assign-
ments as best I could. As soon as my
intestines opened up enough to allow food
to pass through, the doctors had me eat a
lot of food. They wanted me to gain
enough weight to ensure that my intestine
would not close up again, so I vividly recall
eating ice cream sandwiches every hour for
days on end. That was the one and only
time that I could have been considered
heavy (normally I’m very thin), but I did
what I needed to do in order to get better.
I returned to school approximately two
weeks before the first quarter was to end. I
had lots of make up work to do, despite
attending the hospital’s school. Shriner’s
Hospital had their own school, and I
received services as detailed in my IEP.
There was no pressure from my teachers;
they did not lay down any ultimatums. In
their eyes, if I passed great, if not, I would
need to do remedial work. I knew I wanted
to graduate on time with all of my friends.
I also knew that I had college waiting in the
wings! I did everything I could to absorb
as much of the information that I needed
to within those two weeks. I had exams to
take and pass.
I passed all of my classes. That feeling was
so rewarding because I knew that my hard
work paid off, and I was well on my way to
achieving my goal of attending college.
Along this journey to college, I encoun-
tered other obstacles. These obstacles
required me to speak up for myself and
take on the role of a self-advocate.
Self-Advocacy
The ability to speak up for yourself when
needs arise can be referred to as self-
advocacy. This is definitely not an easy
characteristic to develop, as it forces you to
take risks and step out of your comfort
zone. I was not an outspoken person at all
in high school. In fact, I still would
consider myself to be more on the shy side
of the spectrum of personalities.
Although I had many teachers in high
school who were very supportive and
accommodating to ensure that I had all of
the tools and help to succeed, there were a
few instances where this was not the case.
My biology teacher during my sophomore
year of high school was nice, but not very
accommodating. A lot of material was
presented in class using an overhead
projector. As fast as I tried to write all of
the information down in my notebook, I
would miss key points. This had a direct
impact on my ability to excel on examina-
tions and quizzes. I was struggling.
I took the initiative to approach my teacher
to ask if I could receive copies of the
overheads. Her reply was simply, ‘No, this
is a college-prep course and college
professors won’t xerox things for you, so I
won’t.’ I found this response a bit upset-
ting, but I continued to strive to do my
best. I still was not doing well in this class,
even despite attending tutoring sessions
during recess.
Finally, I realized that I needed additional
support, so I consulted with my special
education resource teacher and explained
the situation. I concluded this discussion
by requesting a note taker. The next week,
I had a note taker and I began to slowly
grasp concepts more effectively and began
to do significantly better on my quizzes.
This example illustrates a form of self-
advocacy. I recognized a genuine need and
asked for appropriate support. I did
inform my parents, but they did not take
matters into their own hands and allowed
me to resolve the matter on my own.
However, I had the confidence and
comfort in knowing that I had their full
support should I require any assistance. I
took pride in knowing that I had a note
taker in my class due to the actions I
took! This incident led me to another
realization -- empowerment.
Empowerment
Despite having a significant disability, I
possessed a significant amount of power.
By simply speaking out for myself and
informing people of my needs, I was able
to receive the support I required to allow
me to succeed to my highest potential.
This feeling is referred to as “empower-
ment.”
Empowerment refers to the idea of
allowing people more responsibility to act
for themselves in order to achieve a goal.
Rather than placing control in the hands of
others, the locus of control is placed with
the individual. By demonstrating confi-
dence in someone, you empower. By
allowing someone to do a task on their
own, you empower. By allowing someone
to take risks by exploring new avenues or
opportunities, you empower.
I was fortunate that I was empowered
throughout high school. My special
education resource teacher, therapists, and
parents allowed me to control my own
destiny. If I chose not to study, they would
remind me that I had studies to do, but
they would not force me to study. I would
quickly find out that if I did not study, I
would suffer the consequences; in this case,
the consequence would be a less-than-
stellar grade. I knew full well that I needed
to maintain good grades if I was to
accomplish my goal of attending college. I
was also empowered by receiving appropri-
ate support services.
A fine line exists between receiving
adequate support and receiving too much
support. Receiving too much support
might seem great at the time. You might
be able to get away without working as hard
as you need to, but ultimately this ‘babying’
of sorts will hurt your chances of success.
You’ll expect these supports to be there all
the way through, when in reality you might
not really need them. Thus, it is extremely
important to be honest with yourself and
ask only for what you truly need.
At the same time, empowerment comes
through receiving adequate supports. My
parents empowered me by providing me
with a computer at home that I would use
to type my papers and communicate with
friends via e-mail. My therapists
empowered me by ensuring that my body
was strong enough and my muscles
maintained a good range of motion so I
would not become overly tight; I could sit
comfortably in class, which enhanced my
ability to learn. My doctors empowered me
by making sure I was healthy and received
whatever medication I needed to ensure
that I could attend school and be a
productive student. Empowerment
demonstrates how important a quality
support system can be. I was extremely
fortunate to have a fabulous support
system.
Support System
My main source of support came from
within my family. They helped me keep my
dream alive when I would go through
periods of doubt. ‘You can get through
this, Brian. We know you can!’ This is an
example of the type of positive reinforce-
ment that my parents would provide me.
This type of support was extremely
instrumental, especially when you were well
aware of societal perceptions that you
would not be able to transition into college
successfully because you have a significant
disability.
Through positive reinforcement, I was able
to develop a strong sense of self and
maintained a positive self-image. I never
doubted my abilities for long. I would catch
myself going off course and would tell
myself, ‘Brian, you will attend college. Just
keep working hard.’ This type of positive
self-talk might seem silly, but it’s really
effective, particularly during periods where
you might hear negative comments directed
toward you.
The therapists who worked with me,
including physical and occupational
therapists, were very helpful, as well. They
worked with me to figure out the best way
to make any accommodations I might need
for classes, whether it was adapting
materials to allow me to participate or by
suggesting a peer-support system whereby a
classmate might help me in the classroom.
All of these ideas were influential in
allowing me to maximize my potential as a
student.
During my senior year of high school, I
took the college entrance examination and
did not score as high as I would have liked,
so I took it a second time. My second
score was high enough to allow me to apply
to the University of Hawai‘i, and my strong
academic record helped to seal my dream
that I would attend college! I can vividly
recall receiving my acceptance letter from
UH.
It was at that point that I realized that I had
accomplished achieving my dream by first
visualizing it and then setting out to do
everything I needed to do to allow me to
be in the best possible position to make the
dream a reality. I’m living out my dream by
attending UH, and instead of being an
athlete I’m a very loyal fan. We must
dream big and not view altering our goals
as failing, but rather utilizing our unique
abilities in the best way possible. Dream it,
see it, and do it!”
Sunday, June 28, 2009
willow's first real golf lesson
willow and a few other kids from mililani ike won a special prize: a free lesson under ken terao over at kapolei golf course! ken really went all out, and gave the kids a four hour lesson. willow really had a lot of fun.
my half hour cover of portishead's "the rip"
the chords are actually simple to figure out. the hard thing about arpeggi's is keeping them regular (which i can't do, even when i'm not singing). i also wish i had more lung capacity and range. but hell, it's for fun.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
i read a short story by neil gaiman (in the collection, "fragile things") called "october in the chair." it is similar to what i'd like to write for the story "amphibious" in that it is about the relationship (brief though it may have been) between a living (and unwanted) boy and a dead boy ("dearly" from "dearly departed"). there is a moment in the story that is particularly eloquent and apt for me: after playing with the dead boy for a whole evening, the living boy (nicknamed "the runt") contemplates his prospects: he imagines following a river to see the sea, which he has never seen before; but then, he realizes that what will really happen is that he will be found by his family, and, far from missing him and appreciating him, things will be exactly the same as they were, only worse.
there is a strange abandoned farmhouse nearby, one which "dearly" says has no living thing, but is not necessarily empty. at the end of the story (told by the month of october), the "runt" makes a fateful choice and enters the house...
i am unabashed in admitting that i admired the simplicity of the story. my encounter with it seemed serendipitous. i think i will emulate its spirit, if not its form. the problem with my story is that it is a bit more ambiguous; while the elder brother can be cruel, there is something ultimately good and redeeming about him, and so, the protagonist (my "runt") will have to come to that realization somehow. like "october in the chair," my story does use, as a sort of surrogate brother, a supernatural creature: the kappa. i have debated with myself on the nature and motives of such a creature; would he have a sinister heart, and only help the protagonist to ensure his ultimate downfall, or would he be, like the protagonist, a misunderstood but ultimately good creature?
the use of a supernatural creature is another convenient literary device; conversations with it are candid, and can reveal the "heart" of the protagonist, and, ultimately, the shape of the story. the spirit of the creature determines, in large part, the spirit of the story; is it a tale of paranoia and fear and despair, or is it one of hidden hope?
***
yesterday, when i took the kids to swim at the pool, i pointed out the thin crescent moon to aiden. he said, "grandma mitakara is smiling at us."
***
i have survived 6 days of p90x. i still have my "pouch," but i swear that it's smaller. in any case, i am enjoying the program. it's an extreme program, but it's well-designed, and exercises the body in a variety of ways, ultimately balancing development. i thoroughly "enjoyed" all of them. i actually feel like i'm missing out if i don't do the workout every day.
***
i am exploring quantum touch. it's an energetic healing system. i've been hearing a bit about it from my patients. to me, energy is still a vague and nebulous thing. i've explored aspects of it, and am pretty well known by now for my very warm hands (when working on people). but i haven't really used it in a healing setting with any degree of consciousness or awareness, and i'd like to do that. i'd also like to explore the use of energy with acupuncture. funny, we're supposed to be manipulating qi with needles, but there is little if nothing taught about how this is done, as "energy" experience is such a vague and nebulous topic. for the most part, it is assumed that the mechanical act of needling accomplishes the energy modulation, but i'm not certain this is true. in any case, i'd like to find out more...
***
i thought about michael jackson's death and the irony of death in general. a couple days ago, if you mentioned michael jackson, then the media, and, i daresay, most people would think only of "wacko jacko." they would think of all the weird things he had done.
all of a sudden, now that he's dead, people are so sad. sure, the media still looks upon the outlandish things he did, but their focus now is upon understanding his life, upon putting some kind of capstone (or headstone) on the arc of his tale, so that he may be better "seen" and loved.
tell me, where was all of this concern and sympathy a couple of days ago? are people at all sorry that they made so much fun of him? why is it that it is only when people die that we try to understand and forgive them their little quirks and idiosyncracies? why is it that it is only when people die that we learn to appreciate the good that they have brought to the world?
i'm not pretending to be "holier than thou," because i too thought he was "messed up." but i just think it odd how death seems like an on off switch that suddenly changes people from cruel and insulting to sad and forgiving and understanding.
why can't we look at the living in the same way that we look at the dead?
***
i kind of thought about this in other senses... like songs on the oldies station. the classics. listen to some of them, and you can tell that they were super scandalous and "dirty" in their time. and yet, somehow, like wine, they seem to become an accepted and acceptable part of the culture, cutesy even... something for connoisseurs.
i think when some songs first came out, they weren't received with such fanfare, they were scandalous.
what happens to a song when it becomes an "oldie but goodie?" suddenly, time makes the song safe and good and cute and true. even if the song was about some pretty racy stuff.
it's almost as though sex and death and stuff in the present are all too raw to be processed; we can only begin to digest things after they are long dead. the feelings of the past seem somehow "safe," even though they may have been just as fear-filled and violent and apocalyptic as anything we know today.
there's an irony in that.
i don't know if this insight is actionable. is it possible to look on the present as though it were just something happening again, as though it were just a "golden oldie?" is it possible to look at the past with the realization that it was once an uncertain and fresh present? hard, but i think if i could, i would somehow understand something about life and time. and the hypocrisy of human attention.
there is a strange abandoned farmhouse nearby, one which "dearly" says has no living thing, but is not necessarily empty. at the end of the story (told by the month of october), the "runt" makes a fateful choice and enters the house...
i am unabashed in admitting that i admired the simplicity of the story. my encounter with it seemed serendipitous. i think i will emulate its spirit, if not its form. the problem with my story is that it is a bit more ambiguous; while the elder brother can be cruel, there is something ultimately good and redeeming about him, and so, the protagonist (my "runt") will have to come to that realization somehow. like "october in the chair," my story does use, as a sort of surrogate brother, a supernatural creature: the kappa. i have debated with myself on the nature and motives of such a creature; would he have a sinister heart, and only help the protagonist to ensure his ultimate downfall, or would he be, like the protagonist, a misunderstood but ultimately good creature?
the use of a supernatural creature is another convenient literary device; conversations with it are candid, and can reveal the "heart" of the protagonist, and, ultimately, the shape of the story. the spirit of the creature determines, in large part, the spirit of the story; is it a tale of paranoia and fear and despair, or is it one of hidden hope?
***
yesterday, when i took the kids to swim at the pool, i pointed out the thin crescent moon to aiden. he said, "grandma mitakara is smiling at us."
***
i have survived 6 days of p90x. i still have my "pouch," but i swear that it's smaller. in any case, i am enjoying the program. it's an extreme program, but it's well-designed, and exercises the body in a variety of ways, ultimately balancing development. i thoroughly "enjoyed" all of them. i actually feel like i'm missing out if i don't do the workout every day.
***
i am exploring quantum touch. it's an energetic healing system. i've been hearing a bit about it from my patients. to me, energy is still a vague and nebulous thing. i've explored aspects of it, and am pretty well known by now for my very warm hands (when working on people). but i haven't really used it in a healing setting with any degree of consciousness or awareness, and i'd like to do that. i'd also like to explore the use of energy with acupuncture. funny, we're supposed to be manipulating qi with needles, but there is little if nothing taught about how this is done, as "energy" experience is such a vague and nebulous topic. for the most part, it is assumed that the mechanical act of needling accomplishes the energy modulation, but i'm not certain this is true. in any case, i'd like to find out more...
***
i thought about michael jackson's death and the irony of death in general. a couple days ago, if you mentioned michael jackson, then the media, and, i daresay, most people would think only of "wacko jacko." they would think of all the weird things he had done.
all of a sudden, now that he's dead, people are so sad. sure, the media still looks upon the outlandish things he did, but their focus now is upon understanding his life, upon putting some kind of capstone (or headstone) on the arc of his tale, so that he may be better "seen" and loved.
tell me, where was all of this concern and sympathy a couple of days ago? are people at all sorry that they made so much fun of him? why is it that it is only when people die that we try to understand and forgive them their little quirks and idiosyncracies? why is it that it is only when people die that we learn to appreciate the good that they have brought to the world?
i'm not pretending to be "holier than thou," because i too thought he was "messed up." but i just think it odd how death seems like an on off switch that suddenly changes people from cruel and insulting to sad and forgiving and understanding.
why can't we look at the living in the same way that we look at the dead?
***
i kind of thought about this in other senses... like songs on the oldies station. the classics. listen to some of them, and you can tell that they were super scandalous and "dirty" in their time. and yet, somehow, like wine, they seem to become an accepted and acceptable part of the culture, cutesy even... something for connoisseurs.
i think when some songs first came out, they weren't received with such fanfare, they were scandalous.
what happens to a song when it becomes an "oldie but goodie?" suddenly, time makes the song safe and good and cute and true. even if the song was about some pretty racy stuff.
it's almost as though sex and death and stuff in the present are all too raw to be processed; we can only begin to digest things after they are long dead. the feelings of the past seem somehow "safe," even though they may have been just as fear-filled and violent and apocalyptic as anything we know today.
there's an irony in that.
i don't know if this insight is actionable. is it possible to look on the present as though it were just something happening again, as though it were just a "golden oldie?" is it possible to look at the past with the realization that it was once an uncertain and fresh present? hard, but i think if i could, i would somehow understand something about life and time. and the hypocrisy of human attention.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
more random curds
this is the ideology of beginnings. to make everything compact and cool and be prepared... bullshit.
in the fray... it becomes a matter of expedience... and you start focusing on little goals to get you a breather, a breathing space... a moment alone to nurse your tired little desires, to pretend that a part of you is still alive beneath all of the daily routines... and the struggle to prove that you can live up to all the promises you had in the beginning... the struggle to be a stereotype... and the struggle to shirk the stereotype all at the same time... and how no one sees this, and they only see you as being silly on the one hand, or irresistably boring on the other... no one sees people as people... feeling beings.
***
people will not mourn when you pass, and then they will give passing curiosity to your words, words you wrote while alive, but only when you are dead and safely gone will they read them, because you suddenly become like the oldies station, and all your scandals are cutesy, because you can no longer stalk their living daughters... it’s funny, it’s silly, really. people are constantly trying to scream their being into the universe. and by the time we hear them, the sound is all muted, and all we see of their supernova is a star which we might happen to notice if we had our telescopic lenses focused on our obscure corner of the universe... mute mute mute...
***
and the centipede that was so angry at being caught in a jar, and oscillating threateningly all the way up to the lip of the jar, trying to find a handhold to bite me... so angry. so frightening even in the jar... and how i could feel all of those needle like legs tapping hammering into the glass... vibrations of a life i could never understand, and would ultimately destroy in disgust... unrelating to the unsympathetic to its struggle. it’s you or me...
***
and thinking of creating craters in the mud... trying to get mud to be the right consistency, to match the pictures in the book. i wanted to experience book adventures, i wanted to live a life that was defined by clean cut boys from the 50’s when everything seemed contained, and right, and explainable... and how you could sit and watch sci fi movies that only pretended to be scary, and were actually a joy to watch, with special effects that almost made you laugh... and nights where you could dance with people to the monster mash... that kind of funny. i wanted that... even ghost stories from that age, with pictures in black and white. with pictures that didn’t look out at you, and want to eat you up, and disembowel you... i was trying to conquer ghosts, by making them ancient and 2 dimensional... no horror in my life... no surprises please... i will master fear by looking at old fears... and how they were done away with... they were written about... they were drawn up. and quartered...
***
and thinking of sad one million dollar mansions from the last few decades, and how having a house decked out in all the latest accoutrements will only succeed in being an investment in poor taste eventually... the dim lights... the soft 60’s music blaring over the outdated honky speakers... the light as seen through stained glass...
in the fray... it becomes a matter of expedience... and you start focusing on little goals to get you a breather, a breathing space... a moment alone to nurse your tired little desires, to pretend that a part of you is still alive beneath all of the daily routines... and the struggle to prove that you can live up to all the promises you had in the beginning... the struggle to be a stereotype... and the struggle to shirk the stereotype all at the same time... and how no one sees this, and they only see you as being silly on the one hand, or irresistably boring on the other... no one sees people as people... feeling beings.
***
people will not mourn when you pass, and then they will give passing curiosity to your words, words you wrote while alive, but only when you are dead and safely gone will they read them, because you suddenly become like the oldies station, and all your scandals are cutesy, because you can no longer stalk their living daughters... it’s funny, it’s silly, really. people are constantly trying to scream their being into the universe. and by the time we hear them, the sound is all muted, and all we see of their supernova is a star which we might happen to notice if we had our telescopic lenses focused on our obscure corner of the universe... mute mute mute...
***
and the centipede that was so angry at being caught in a jar, and oscillating threateningly all the way up to the lip of the jar, trying to find a handhold to bite me... so angry. so frightening even in the jar... and how i could feel all of those needle like legs tapping hammering into the glass... vibrations of a life i could never understand, and would ultimately destroy in disgust... unrelating to the unsympathetic to its struggle. it’s you or me...
***
and thinking of creating craters in the mud... trying to get mud to be the right consistency, to match the pictures in the book. i wanted to experience book adventures, i wanted to live a life that was defined by clean cut boys from the 50’s when everything seemed contained, and right, and explainable... and how you could sit and watch sci fi movies that only pretended to be scary, and were actually a joy to watch, with special effects that almost made you laugh... and nights where you could dance with people to the monster mash... that kind of funny. i wanted that... even ghost stories from that age, with pictures in black and white. with pictures that didn’t look out at you, and want to eat you up, and disembowel you... i was trying to conquer ghosts, by making them ancient and 2 dimensional... no horror in my life... no surprises please... i will master fear by looking at old fears... and how they were done away with... they were written about... they were drawn up. and quartered...
***
and thinking of sad one million dollar mansions from the last few decades, and how having a house decked out in all the latest accoutrements will only succeed in being an investment in poor taste eventually... the dim lights... the soft 60’s music blaring over the outdated honky speakers... the light as seen through stained glass...
random fruits of antilabor
"the homeless, prostitutes and whores
side by side round the garbage cooking smores."
***
the connected and the disconnected
you can get wifi here
and privately hear itunes scream in your ear
updated facebook stream on your screen
and twitter clever haikus about last night's dream.
the world is wireless
(and it's nearly desireless!
at least until the next update launch).
i had a question
nagging question
distracting me from my webbed attentions.
i followed my standard protocol and googled it
and found a dozen unrelated things to talk about;
posted them on my facebook wall
to send ripples out to the all
and soon forgot what my original query had been.
it couldn't have been important;
no one had answered it before
(at least not in the top 20 search results).
oh neat,
someone did a re-tweet
and linked to one of my post.
i'll sit for a minute in pleased repose.
i had a question
nagging question
trivial question
but it must not been important.
***
bluetooth, and unhappiness. the unhappy and pretentious doctor. i feel sorry for him. but no one opens up to him. no one opens up to him because ultimately he is not there for them... he is not a good listener. he is someone who boxes up their wounds for them... wraps them up like christmas presents... nothing to offer but bows and ribbons and pretty bandaids... their words were meant to howl in the emptiness... and you haven't a bedside ear...
***
how to make sense of it all. how to find a pattern in all of this. and whether it is all a waste of time. these are all questions of the ego, of the one who wants to make worth out of nothing, through sequestering and lassoing air and space... boxes... remembering the secret of resonance chambers... perhaps a whole room... these are all empty rooms... and they don’t lead anywhere. and they don’t contain anything... but when the wind blows across the mouth of them, then there is a deep sound. and you can feel it all within you... you become one with a vibration... a secret... a deep secret...
***
the heart. the hurt. the art... a mix between hurt and art...
***
outstrip and outlast and speed past the ego, break through the speed of sound and the sound barrier, the barrier of the ego, if you can write fast enough perhaps you can find that place where no word has ever been, and no sound could reach you... and there will be a thundering, not unlike the buddha’s lion roar, the roar of silence, the place where the air wakes, and finds its own absence, and collapses in on itself in sheer disbelief...
***
and how i want to add disturbance to their comfortable facades... send a ripple across your face. please ripple across your face... worry. worry super scurry.
i am seeking to build a rocket that will traverse, that will span the abyss, to you. to who? who is reading this? this mythical reader i have invented...
i am pyongyang and i am firing a missile in your direction to catch your eyes. but with my limited technology, i will miss you by 500 miles, and be shot down. and then you will bring hell to my impoverished people...
side by side round the garbage cooking smores."
***
the connected and the disconnected
you can get wifi here
and privately hear itunes scream in your ear
updated facebook stream on your screen
and twitter clever haikus about last night's dream.
the world is wireless
(and it's nearly desireless!
at least until the next update launch).
i had a question
nagging question
distracting me from my webbed attentions.
i followed my standard protocol and googled it
and found a dozen unrelated things to talk about;
posted them on my facebook wall
to send ripples out to the all
and soon forgot what my original query had been.
it couldn't have been important;
no one had answered it before
(at least not in the top 20 search results).
oh neat,
someone did a re-tweet
and linked to one of my post.
i'll sit for a minute in pleased repose.
i had a question
nagging question
trivial question
but it must not been important.
***
bluetooth, and unhappiness. the unhappy and pretentious doctor. i feel sorry for him. but no one opens up to him. no one opens up to him because ultimately he is not there for them... he is not a good listener. he is someone who boxes up their wounds for them... wraps them up like christmas presents... nothing to offer but bows and ribbons and pretty bandaids... their words were meant to howl in the emptiness... and you haven't a bedside ear...
***
how to make sense of it all. how to find a pattern in all of this. and whether it is all a waste of time. these are all questions of the ego, of the one who wants to make worth out of nothing, through sequestering and lassoing air and space... boxes... remembering the secret of resonance chambers... perhaps a whole room... these are all empty rooms... and they don’t lead anywhere. and they don’t contain anything... but when the wind blows across the mouth of them, then there is a deep sound. and you can feel it all within you... you become one with a vibration... a secret... a deep secret...
***
the heart. the hurt. the art... a mix between hurt and art...
***
outstrip and outlast and speed past the ego, break through the speed of sound and the sound barrier, the barrier of the ego, if you can write fast enough perhaps you can find that place where no word has ever been, and no sound could reach you... and there will be a thundering, not unlike the buddha’s lion roar, the roar of silence, the place where the air wakes, and finds its own absence, and collapses in on itself in sheer disbelief...
***
and how i want to add disturbance to their comfortable facades... send a ripple across your face. please ripple across your face... worry. worry super scurry.
i am seeking to build a rocket that will traverse, that will span the abyss, to you. to who? who is reading this? this mythical reader i have invented...
i am pyongyang and i am firing a missile in your direction to catch your eyes. but with my limited technology, i will miss you by 500 miles, and be shot down. and then you will bring hell to my impoverished people...
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
pattern-ity
okay. so i have established somewhat a pattern to all of my narratives. i think, what i seek to express, via narrative form, is a feeling/sense of depth and its associated resonance. so here's how this is accomplished (over and over) in my stories. it is a secret i stole from many other narratives, but most clearly from haruki murakami's "hard-boiled wonderland and the end of the world."
create two storylines. the storylines should have some metaphorical tie to each other, but this is not necessary. in fact, at the outset, it is possible to utilize two strangers living two strange lives. the point is that each storyline has its own desired goal, and each protagonist within each storyline attempts to reach that goal through their own means; there is no direct recourse of one storyline to the other.
the storylines play off each other, often in subtle ways. for example, one memorable detail i recall from murakami's story was this: the librarian (the more poetic existence) sees the changing autumn leaves; and the "encoder" (the more "real" external existence) sees a poster advertising a certain region in japan, with leaves turning red in the fall...
the artful way (and the biggest complexity of writing such a tail) demands that the overall storyline and plot progress through the "bouncing off" and "informing" of one storyline to the other. it is not that you are creating simple vertiginous vertical ties ("moments of vertigo") between two parallel storylines... this is simply straightforward metaphor. you have to somehow add time to the element, so that as one storyline comes to a realization, or a small progression of the plot, this effortlessly reveals something for the alternate storyline...
the conclusion involves the two storylines colliding with and consuming and destroying each other; or, to put it in simple terms, two storylines enter, one storyline leaves. this is a structural necessity, i feel...
all of my stories have this general form. even those which ostensibly have a single storyline actually have an additional "layer" (this is usually provided through the incorporation of "dreams.").
i think of late i have been overly dependent upon dreams. dreams are a convenient narrative device, in that they can express the inexpressible, they can reveal symbolic ties, that you can't state overtly in normal "waking" reality. but dreams, at least in the narrative context, do have an end goal; like any storyline, they need to achieve resolution, which in the case of dreams, usually is the realization of their hidden meaning...
***
i'm having a hard time actually jumping in and writing. and for some reason, i feel an increasing reticence to speak. my opinions (my "mind") always seems to provoke reactions in strangers. like always. i'm not trying to be provocative... i wish people would see that i'm just a lost fish in a big sea; and that everyone is just a lost fish in a big sea. and if that's really true, then no one is really lost after all. the founding fathers who build pretend islands are the ones who should be drowned, not me.
drowning a fish is redundant. and fruitless.
create two storylines. the storylines should have some metaphorical tie to each other, but this is not necessary. in fact, at the outset, it is possible to utilize two strangers living two strange lives. the point is that each storyline has its own desired goal, and each protagonist within each storyline attempts to reach that goal through their own means; there is no direct recourse of one storyline to the other.
the storylines play off each other, often in subtle ways. for example, one memorable detail i recall from murakami's story was this: the librarian (the more poetic existence) sees the changing autumn leaves; and the "encoder" (the more "real" external existence) sees a poster advertising a certain region in japan, with leaves turning red in the fall...
the artful way (and the biggest complexity of writing such a tail) demands that the overall storyline and plot progress through the "bouncing off" and "informing" of one storyline to the other. it is not that you are creating simple vertiginous vertical ties ("moments of vertigo") between two parallel storylines... this is simply straightforward metaphor. you have to somehow add time to the element, so that as one storyline comes to a realization, or a small progression of the plot, this effortlessly reveals something for the alternate storyline...
the conclusion involves the two storylines colliding with and consuming and destroying each other; or, to put it in simple terms, two storylines enter, one storyline leaves. this is a structural necessity, i feel...
all of my stories have this general form. even those which ostensibly have a single storyline actually have an additional "layer" (this is usually provided through the incorporation of "dreams.").
i think of late i have been overly dependent upon dreams. dreams are a convenient narrative device, in that they can express the inexpressible, they can reveal symbolic ties, that you can't state overtly in normal "waking" reality. but dreams, at least in the narrative context, do have an end goal; like any storyline, they need to achieve resolution, which in the case of dreams, usually is the realization of their hidden meaning...
***
i'm having a hard time actually jumping in and writing. and for some reason, i feel an increasing reticence to speak. my opinions (my "mind") always seems to provoke reactions in strangers. like always. i'm not trying to be provocative... i wish people would see that i'm just a lost fish in a big sea; and that everyone is just a lost fish in a big sea. and if that's really true, then no one is really lost after all. the founding fathers who build pretend islands are the ones who should be drowned, not me.
drowning a fish is redundant. and fruitless.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
beauty
i remember that moment
when you forgot yourself
and smiled. like a light
winking on in full noon.
and it was the most beautiful
thing i had ever seen.
this is the preoccupation now
of a tired old man
to nurture the conditions
for that face, that smile,
to return once again.
the beauty of the world
to return once again.
***
frozen and burnt.
saved up and spent.
there is no lesson from this day learned
and tomorrow will only be left to repent.
***
so tired, can't sleep.
dead head and wake-filled heart.
dreams like watercolor creep
and blur my end and my start.
when you forgot yourself
and smiled. like a light
winking on in full noon.
and it was the most beautiful
thing i had ever seen.
this is the preoccupation now
of a tired old man
to nurture the conditions
for that face, that smile,
to return once again.
the beauty of the world
to return once again.
***
frozen and burnt.
saved up and spent.
there is no lesson from this day learned
and tomorrow will only be left to repent.
***
so tired, can't sleep.
dead head and wake-filled heart.
dreams like watercolor creep
and blur my end and my start.
internal consistency
i will, in this moment, believe in what i write
circumscribed by a lack of light
and a paucity of will
i will believe i am right.
tomorrow's cruel morning
and the mocking words of jackdaws
will prove painstakingly the wrong in me
the offtune song in me
i know
i know too well.
and then, i will close my eyes
and close the circuit
and once again in blindness
make the gesture
an arc of invisible light
that joins me to the
me i believe must exist somewhere
a me in you
and the faith of bridgemakers.
i will believe, in that moment, in what i write.
circumscribed by a lack of light
and a paucity of will
i will believe i am right.
tomorrow's cruel morning
and the mocking words of jackdaws
will prove painstakingly the wrong in me
the offtune song in me
i know
i know too well.
and then, i will close my eyes
and close the circuit
and once again in blindness
make the gesture
an arc of invisible light
that joins me to the
me i believe must exist somewhere
a me in you
and the faith of bridgemakers.
i will believe, in that moment, in what i write.
why firesales are a bad idea
i just saw "live free or die hard" about a week ago, with my wife. mainly, i suppose i wanted to see maggie q, who grew up in mililani, and was both in the swim team and in cross country (my old coach and calculus teacher, mr. sawada, gave a brief interview regarding who she was). anyway, i generally liked the movie, despite a few suspend-the-reality moments (hitting a chopper with a car? or somehow surviving an attack by an air force jet while driving a semi?). one moment that really bugged me: at one point, bruce willis and the guy from the apple commercials (from here on: gfac) need to hotwire a car. so gfac pretends the car got into an accident, so that he can get onstar to perform a remote car ignition. trouble is: the movie is about "firesale" terrorism, in which, presumably, all systems, communications, utilities, everything, are down.
but what really bugged me was the whole premise of the movie. granted, terrorists supposedly have complex and at times apocalyptic motives. but apparently, the terrorists in this movie just wanted money (this seems to be an ongoing theme in the die hard movies). yet: if you have a firesale, and completely break down the entire system, how can you later insinuate that what you "stole" has any worth at all? this is the flaw in the logic. the economy, everything, is like a game. and everyone's trying to win by accumulating wealth, etc. but you can't cheat and cause a meltdown of the game, and then steal all the money. the worth of the money depends on the continuance of the game.
this is reminiscent of arguments against all those who attempt to "cheat the system." if the system is cheated too much, then it breaks down, and everything becomes worthless for everyone. case in point: our present financial crisis.
we bandy about the words "sustainable development," primarily with regards to the environment and real estate. but we should also consider those words with all endeavors, particularly those dealing with our relationships with others. we cannot abuse the system and others without somehow eventually reaping consequences later. and if our "sins" accumulate (much like our carbon dioxide), then eventually, we will be faced with wholesale threats to the system we depend upon. and then, what will our money be worth, where will our fancy automobiles (with empty gas tanks) carry us?
harmony, at some level, is necessary for civilization and its fruits. we must never forget that.
firesales might seem like a cool idea. but there's no way to cheat the system if there is no system.
but what really bugged me was the whole premise of the movie. granted, terrorists supposedly have complex and at times apocalyptic motives. but apparently, the terrorists in this movie just wanted money (this seems to be an ongoing theme in the die hard movies). yet: if you have a firesale, and completely break down the entire system, how can you later insinuate that what you "stole" has any worth at all? this is the flaw in the logic. the economy, everything, is like a game. and everyone's trying to win by accumulating wealth, etc. but you can't cheat and cause a meltdown of the game, and then steal all the money. the worth of the money depends on the continuance of the game.
this is reminiscent of arguments against all those who attempt to "cheat the system." if the system is cheated too much, then it breaks down, and everything becomes worthless for everyone. case in point: our present financial crisis.
we bandy about the words "sustainable development," primarily with regards to the environment and real estate. but we should also consider those words with all endeavors, particularly those dealing with our relationships with others. we cannot abuse the system and others without somehow eventually reaping consequences later. and if our "sins" accumulate (much like our carbon dioxide), then eventually, we will be faced with wholesale threats to the system we depend upon. and then, what will our money be worth, where will our fancy automobiles (with empty gas tanks) carry us?
harmony, at some level, is necessary for civilization and its fruits. we must never forget that.
firesales might seem like a cool idea. but there's no way to cheat the system if there is no system.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
i love macs
i'd like to take this opportunity to praise apple. yesterday, i bought a macbook pro from the apple store (they have this deal where college students can purchase a macbook and get a free ipod touch). i originally fell in love with the mac after i gradually commandeered the macbook i'd bought for my wife a few years ago. once i used the mac applications (particularly imovie and garageband), well, i was hooked. i'd heard that various professionals preferred macs. for example, a lot of photo enthusiasts utilize mac-based photo-editing software. and none other than thom yorke uses a mac on occasion to record his work (witness thom and jonny playing a cover of portishead's "the rip"; there's a white macbook sitting on the table before them). as soon as i started using some of these mac-based applications, i understood. there's something about presentation and style that goes a long way, and mac programs tend to have a lot of that. but it's more than that. mac software tends to be "well-thought out." it's as though a photographer, or a musician, or whatever, brainstormed the perfect software to assist in dream realization. contrast that with a lot of windows applications, which appear to have been put together piecemeal by programmers to fulfill a checklist of basic requirements. sure, these programs might "do the job," but oftentimes, it's a real pain to get it to even perform a partial realization of one's visions...
***
i think i'm running into a spate of bad luck. i won't mention specifics, but let me say that a really stubborn headache and my first real encounter with a courtroom haven't been the end of my woes... if i really allow it to get to me, then i might fall further into depression, and i can't afford to do this. people do depend on me, on occasion: my wife, my children, my patients, my students. and i can't let anyone down...
***
i think i have a generally dim view of people in general. it's not that i dislike people, because i don't. it's just that i don't trust people will help me, and in fact, are more apt to hold me in disdain, or actively work against me. i have been ignored or humiliated in the past, and thus don't expect people to react favorably to me, or to my requests for assistance.
i try to get beyond the "small talk" and "drama" and "politics" that people exude, and get at their "heart" (which itself could be a construct). i try to help people in the most effective and hidden ways i know. this is the manner in which i communicate myself to the world...
the problem with my reluctance/inability to trust that others could or would be kind to me is this. there's a kind of myopia in a person who fails to trust the world. such a person can only "see" others in proximity, and definitely cannot extend vision to encompass a wide horizon full of free and easy relations. i, quite frankly, don't believe in such a "world vision"; never have and never will... and yet, i can't deny that i feel a certain jealousy towards people who can walk in the world with such ease and confidence, voicing their own feelings with such verve and strength, firm in the faith that others will receive and understand and sympathize and cheer on their every whim and sentiment...
for me, there is and has always been a great distance between myself and the world.
my concern is this: if i don't believe in the kindness of the world, am i doing it (and myself) a disservice? not sure, and even less certain that i could change myself if it were. in my experience, people don't give a carp about people... you just do what is right, and by accident, sometimes people will realize/recognize you. other than that, though, you walk alone.
jeez, i am getting progressively darker and gloomier... but that's me right now. won't hide it.
***
i think i'm running into a spate of bad luck. i won't mention specifics, but let me say that a really stubborn headache and my first real encounter with a courtroom haven't been the end of my woes... if i really allow it to get to me, then i might fall further into depression, and i can't afford to do this. people do depend on me, on occasion: my wife, my children, my patients, my students. and i can't let anyone down...
***
i think i have a generally dim view of people in general. it's not that i dislike people, because i don't. it's just that i don't trust people will help me, and in fact, are more apt to hold me in disdain, or actively work against me. i have been ignored or humiliated in the past, and thus don't expect people to react favorably to me, or to my requests for assistance.
i try to get beyond the "small talk" and "drama" and "politics" that people exude, and get at their "heart" (which itself could be a construct). i try to help people in the most effective and hidden ways i know. this is the manner in which i communicate myself to the world...
the problem with my reluctance/inability to trust that others could or would be kind to me is this. there's a kind of myopia in a person who fails to trust the world. such a person can only "see" others in proximity, and definitely cannot extend vision to encompass a wide horizon full of free and easy relations. i, quite frankly, don't believe in such a "world vision"; never have and never will... and yet, i can't deny that i feel a certain jealousy towards people who can walk in the world with such ease and confidence, voicing their own feelings with such verve and strength, firm in the faith that others will receive and understand and sympathize and cheer on their every whim and sentiment...
for me, there is and has always been a great distance between myself and the world.
my concern is this: if i don't believe in the kindness of the world, am i doing it (and myself) a disservice? not sure, and even less certain that i could change myself if it were. in my experience, people don't give a carp about people... you just do what is right, and by accident, sometimes people will realize/recognize you. other than that, though, you walk alone.
jeez, i am getting progressively darker and gloomier... but that's me right now. won't hide it.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
why pennies in wells part two
from wikipedia:
This may be a left over from ancient mythology such as MÃmir's Well from Nordic myths, also known as the ¨Well of Wisdom¨, a Well that could grant you infinite wisdom provided you sacrificed something you held dear. Odin was asked to sacrifice his right eye which he threw into the well to receive not only the wisdom of seeing the future but the understanding of why things must be. MÃmir is the Nordic god of wisdom, and his well sits at the roots of Yggdrasil, the World Tree which draws its water from the well.
[edit]
This may be a left over from ancient mythology such as MÃmir's Well from Nordic myths, also known as the ¨Well of Wisdom¨, a Well that could grant you infinite wisdom provided you sacrificed something you held dear. Odin was asked to sacrifice his right eye which he threw into the well to receive not only the wisdom of seeing the future but the understanding of why things must be. MÃmir is the Nordic god of wisdom, and his well sits at the roots of Yggdrasil, the World Tree which draws its water from the well.
[edit]
why do people throw pennies into wells?
here's a blog entry on pennies that i found. it is interesting, particularly the 4 theories posited as to why people throw pennies...
this if from:
http://www.jazzydoc.com/CommunityServer/blogs/heretotheretour/archive/2006/11/07/44.aspx
Pennies
Updated mileage: Bike 239 miles Hike 138 miles Run 141 miles Drive 19020
Pennies
The sign on the railing above Plymouth Rock said "Do Not Throw Pennies Onto Plymouth Rock". It would not have occurred to me that a prohibition against penny-throwing was necessary, but as I looked over the railing I saw at least a dozen coins scattered around this national landmark.
First a word about Plymouth Rock. The storied landing place of the Mayflower Pilgrims was less than impressive. The Rock itself was smaller than a parlour loveseat and sits half-buried in the sand at the harbour in Plymouth, Massachussets. On the surface of this otherwise nondescript rock was the date "1620". Expecting a boulder of mythic proportions, its physical size was disappointing. The Rock’s history was even more sorry. Apparently nobody had worried about where Capt. John Smith's boot first touched earth in his new home until 120 years later, when some citizen pointed to this lump of stone and proclaimed that it was the very spot where the Mayflower passengers disembarked. After another 100 years they decided to move it to a safer spot downtown, but the rock broke in half when they tried to pull it out of the sand. Leaving one half stuck in the sand, they took the other half down to city hall where it languished for another 50 years. Then it was moved to a different location in town. Sometime in the 1900s the town decided to take it back to the beach, where they glued it back onto the half that was still buried in the sand, surrounding it with a fence and a stern admonition against the throwing of currency,
On our travels, we have seen pennies thrown onto and into a variety of public memorials. Nearly every fountain in a city park or civic plaza has coins sparkling under the water. The grand semicircular pools with arching water jets that flank the entrance to the Clinton Presidential Center in Little Rock have an impressive collection of pennies in them. On the Battle Green in Lexington, Kentucky stands a marble monument commemorating the British attack on the Minutemen. The 12 foot spire of marble was placed in 1790 and is somewhat worse for wear, so a wrought-iron fence now surrounds it for protection. Pennies are strewn everywhere around the base of the stone memorial, and several pennies sit perched on the narrow rim of the monument's pedestal. Paul Revere's grave in Boston was surrounded with an iron fence and a small fortune in pocket change. Paul was a master metalsmith and might have wondered "who took the copper out of the penny?" In Philadelphia we had to pay a couple of dollars to enter the graveyard where Benjamin Franklin was buried. His grave was also covered in pennies, and you could almost hear the Poor Richard warning that "a penny saved is a penny earned"; he would certainly frown on the waste of a good coin. In Mystic, Connecticut we walked thru an historical replica of the old whaling town. You could walk into most of the old shops, but the bank had iron bars across the open door. Inside, just a penny's throw away, sat the bank's vault, door invitingly open. Hundreds of pennies had been tossed into and around the vault, where they looked perfectly at home.
My first contact with this phenomenon of throwing pennies into inaccessible public receptacles was when I was an impressionable five-year-old. Children's Hospital had a "Wishing Well" where children could make a wish and throw a penny into the well. I was always a little confused about this: Clearly the money went to the hospital, helping needy children get well. What I couldn't figure out was whether you had to use your wish for the unfortunate sick children, or whether they could have your money but you could wish for something for yourself, sort of a win-win situation. And what if you threw in a nickel? Did you get five wishes, or one really big wish? These are the ethical dilemmas that trouble a kindergartener. But I loved to throw that little copper coin into the well.
Why do people have this desire to throw pennies into fountains, ponds, and small fenced enclosures of all sorts? I have a number of possible theories:
1. People like to donate to the public institutions represented by the fountain or monument. Certainly the caretakers rake up the coins regularly, and in some small way this might help with the upkeep of public areas.
2. People are fascinated by inaccessibility. You can see the bottom of the pool or the fenced-off gravestone, but you can't get to it. Adding small change enhances this effect--the money is there, just out of reach, Like real life.
3. Children and men enjoy the challenge of target practice. In many cases the pennies are clearly aimed for the smallest, most difficult areas, reminiscent of the old game of pitching pennies. In this child's gambling game, each player tosses a penny as near the wall as possible without actually hitting the wall, If the next player can get his penny closer, he gets to keep his opponent’s money. Some people just can't resist a challenge.
4. My own favorite theory is that throwing pennies is a way of making contact with a person, event, or object of beauty that is otherwise out of reach. Tossing a penny onto Paul Revere's gravestone somehow transports the person back 230 years to the year of the glorious ride, a way of participating in a tiny way with history.
This last theory leads me to relate an interesting twist on the penny theme. At Walden Pond near Concord, Massachusetts visitors can walk a mile along the lake to the spot where Henry David Thoreau lived in a rough cabin in the woods for two years as an experiment in living as simply as possible. This experience is chronicled in his famous book, Walden. This book has had a profound philosophical and spiritual effect on many generations, but particularly those children of the 1960s who questioned the values of our materialistic society. Next to the site where Henry's cabin had been there is a large pile of small stones. For over 100 years visitors to the cabin site have added their own rocks to the pile, as a way of "touching" the life and ideas of Henry David Thoreau. Pennies would not have seemed an appropriate remembrance for this man who cared little for money but cared a lot for nature. I have added my own stone to this collection on three separate occasions, including our recent visit last month. At the nearby Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, where Henry is buried near his friends Emerson, Alcott, and Hawthorne, a 10 inch tall headstone simply says "Henry". When we visited his grave, a row of 5 pebbles sat on top of his grave marker; some kindred spirit just wanted to say "hi".
Finally, our travels took us to the Civil Rights Institute in Birmingham, Alabama. The park across the street was the scene of the notorious incident where police released attack dogs on a march of black children, and on the next corner stands the 16th Street Baptist Church, which still bears the scars of the bombing that killed 4 little girls during Sunday School. In the Civil Rights Institute was an excellent and very detailed exhibit that tells the story of the civil rights movement. Near the end of the series of exhibits is a re-creation of Martin Luther King’s jail cell. You stand on the outside of the bars looking into the prison cell, a very realistic and chilling view. The stark cot in the room is made up with clean white sheets. On the bed is a scattering of pennies, along with dozens of nickels and dimes, and at least a hundred quarters. Visitors clearly wanted to reach thru the bars to touch this difficult part of our history, but pennies were not enough to reflect the terrible price paid by the courageous heroes of the struggle for civil rights.
this if from:
http://www.jazzydoc.com/CommunityServer/blogs/heretotheretour/archive/2006/11/07/44.aspx
Pennies
Updated mileage: Bike 239 miles Hike 138 miles Run 141 miles Drive 19020
Pennies
The sign on the railing above Plymouth Rock said "Do Not Throw Pennies Onto Plymouth Rock". It would not have occurred to me that a prohibition against penny-throwing was necessary, but as I looked over the railing I saw at least a dozen coins scattered around this national landmark.
First a word about Plymouth Rock. The storied landing place of the Mayflower Pilgrims was less than impressive. The Rock itself was smaller than a parlour loveseat and sits half-buried in the sand at the harbour in Plymouth, Massachussets. On the surface of this otherwise nondescript rock was the date "1620". Expecting a boulder of mythic proportions, its physical size was disappointing. The Rock’s history was even more sorry. Apparently nobody had worried about where Capt. John Smith's boot first touched earth in his new home until 120 years later, when some citizen pointed to this lump of stone and proclaimed that it was the very spot where the Mayflower passengers disembarked. After another 100 years they decided to move it to a safer spot downtown, but the rock broke in half when they tried to pull it out of the sand. Leaving one half stuck in the sand, they took the other half down to city hall where it languished for another 50 years. Then it was moved to a different location in town. Sometime in the 1900s the town decided to take it back to the beach, where they glued it back onto the half that was still buried in the sand, surrounding it with a fence and a stern admonition against the throwing of currency,
On our travels, we have seen pennies thrown onto and into a variety of public memorials. Nearly every fountain in a city park or civic plaza has coins sparkling under the water. The grand semicircular pools with arching water jets that flank the entrance to the Clinton Presidential Center in Little Rock have an impressive collection of pennies in them. On the Battle Green in Lexington, Kentucky stands a marble monument commemorating the British attack on the Minutemen. The 12 foot spire of marble was placed in 1790 and is somewhat worse for wear, so a wrought-iron fence now surrounds it for protection. Pennies are strewn everywhere around the base of the stone memorial, and several pennies sit perched on the narrow rim of the monument's pedestal. Paul Revere's grave in Boston was surrounded with an iron fence and a small fortune in pocket change. Paul was a master metalsmith and might have wondered "who took the copper out of the penny?" In Philadelphia we had to pay a couple of dollars to enter the graveyard where Benjamin Franklin was buried. His grave was also covered in pennies, and you could almost hear the Poor Richard warning that "a penny saved is a penny earned"; he would certainly frown on the waste of a good coin. In Mystic, Connecticut we walked thru an historical replica of the old whaling town. You could walk into most of the old shops, but the bank had iron bars across the open door. Inside, just a penny's throw away, sat the bank's vault, door invitingly open. Hundreds of pennies had been tossed into and around the vault, where they looked perfectly at home.
My first contact with this phenomenon of throwing pennies into inaccessible public receptacles was when I was an impressionable five-year-old. Children's Hospital had a "Wishing Well" where children could make a wish and throw a penny into the well. I was always a little confused about this: Clearly the money went to the hospital, helping needy children get well. What I couldn't figure out was whether you had to use your wish for the unfortunate sick children, or whether they could have your money but you could wish for something for yourself, sort of a win-win situation. And what if you threw in a nickel? Did you get five wishes, or one really big wish? These are the ethical dilemmas that trouble a kindergartener. But I loved to throw that little copper coin into the well.
Why do people have this desire to throw pennies into fountains, ponds, and small fenced enclosures of all sorts? I have a number of possible theories:
1. People like to donate to the public institutions represented by the fountain or monument. Certainly the caretakers rake up the coins regularly, and in some small way this might help with the upkeep of public areas.
2. People are fascinated by inaccessibility. You can see the bottom of the pool or the fenced-off gravestone, but you can't get to it. Adding small change enhances this effect--the money is there, just out of reach, Like real life.
3. Children and men enjoy the challenge of target practice. In many cases the pennies are clearly aimed for the smallest, most difficult areas, reminiscent of the old game of pitching pennies. In this child's gambling game, each player tosses a penny as near the wall as possible without actually hitting the wall, If the next player can get his penny closer, he gets to keep his opponent’s money. Some people just can't resist a challenge.
4. My own favorite theory is that throwing pennies is a way of making contact with a person, event, or object of beauty that is otherwise out of reach. Tossing a penny onto Paul Revere's gravestone somehow transports the person back 230 years to the year of the glorious ride, a way of participating in a tiny way with history.
This last theory leads me to relate an interesting twist on the penny theme. At Walden Pond near Concord, Massachusetts visitors can walk a mile along the lake to the spot where Henry David Thoreau lived in a rough cabin in the woods for two years as an experiment in living as simply as possible. This experience is chronicled in his famous book, Walden. This book has had a profound philosophical and spiritual effect on many generations, but particularly those children of the 1960s who questioned the values of our materialistic society. Next to the site where Henry's cabin had been there is a large pile of small stones. For over 100 years visitors to the cabin site have added their own rocks to the pile, as a way of "touching" the life and ideas of Henry David Thoreau. Pennies would not have seemed an appropriate remembrance for this man who cared little for money but cared a lot for nature. I have added my own stone to this collection on three separate occasions, including our recent visit last month. At the nearby Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, where Henry is buried near his friends Emerson, Alcott, and Hawthorne, a 10 inch tall headstone simply says "Henry". When we visited his grave, a row of 5 pebbles sat on top of his grave marker; some kindred spirit just wanted to say "hi".
Finally, our travels took us to the Civil Rights Institute in Birmingham, Alabama. The park across the street was the scene of the notorious incident where police released attack dogs on a march of black children, and on the next corner stands the 16th Street Baptist Church, which still bears the scars of the bombing that killed 4 little girls during Sunday School. In the Civil Rights Institute was an excellent and very detailed exhibit that tells the story of the civil rights movement. Near the end of the series of exhibits is a re-creation of Martin Luther King’s jail cell. You stand on the outside of the bars looking into the prison cell, a very realistic and chilling view. The stark cot in the room is made up with clean white sheets. On the bed is a scattering of pennies, along with dozens of nickels and dimes, and at least a hundred quarters. Visitors clearly wanted to reach thru the bars to touch this difficult part of our history, but pennies were not enough to reflect the terrible price paid by the courageous heroes of the struggle for civil rights.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
for some, words don't come easy. they struggle out of the amorphous depths, without clear purpose, only wanting out. and yet, after their impossible struggle to slowly inch their way up a larynx, and shape themselves through the boxing of the voice and the curl of the tongue and the gate of the teeth, for some, the words come out tired or even dead on arrival. like cane toads emerging from the underground in the swollen rains, only to be quashed thoughtlessly the moment they step out on the roads of common communication.
in the light of day, under the heat of scrutiny, those who live abovegrounds, comfortable with superficial and idle chatter, they note the stink, they comment on the way the toad-words look as though they were made to be crushed, pink tongue sticking out as though to participate in some cosmic joke... but no one thinks much of them, or the message that they may have inchoately attempted to give the world. like marathon, the first runner to give that race a name, with a message no one cared to receive; even if someone died in the process.
***
i have come to the conclusion that my words are dark and call to mind some ugliness within or beneath that people don't want to think about. or, my words are like crushed toads that people idly comment on and ignore.
i have been thinking about what people like to hear. i have tried to read works that have been more "well-received." i can appreciate the writings of others, but not always, and i think that in some cases, what is "well-received" has just been "well-packaged" or "well-promoted." in any case, i don't resonate with everything...
and i guess that's the point.
as a writer (or would be, or wanna be writer), there is a tension between a need to create a unique expression of one's inner self, and the need to reach others. if you rely too much on the former need, then you run the risk of solipsism, or at the very least, a myopic view of your world. if you rely too much on the latter, then you're commercial, you're superficial, you aren't yourself any longer.
i have tried to use my writing as a bridge. i have always relied on the basic hope that what i express from within is true, and, if received by the properly shaped emptiness in others, will find resonance. that was my dream, in any case. and, it seems, a few friends did find some degree of resonance; they appreciated what i was trying to do. they discovered the humanity within me, which i had been trying to communicate. and for that, i am grateful.
i suppose i should be happy with that. and i am. i suppose that, like many writers, i was getting greedy, and had this hidden seed planted within my head that my work would be accessible and interesting to many people. but i think i should have been more realistic. i think i should have known myself, and my writing, as other REAL people would see it.
i am thoroughly uninteresting and depressing. i struggle with art because, like the toad stuck in the well, something within wants out. there is no question of its ugliness or relevance for me (although i do try to "dress things up" to fit the conventions of literature). there is only the need to "out" myself, to "ex" plain myself.
people turn away. people are silent.
and why not? the world above is a competition for attention. it is a veritable cacophany. and this is as it should be. it is what keeps the world unstable and stable at the same time, this continual partiality of voice and partiality of listening. no one can contain the voice of the world. we pretend to, with this globalism, with this internet. but there is no voice, there is no one voice, there is not even a nexus or center. each speaks his own suffering and his own hope. we are all just empty boxes, and sometimes something in the world moves us. there is no pattern to this. there is no catching the wind.
it is my personal predilection, but i am always turning away from other people. inevitably unreliable. as i am. the only truth is the feeling and intuition that drives words and acts. and the only confirmation of truth is the occasional nod that you have made a difference, that you have helped to solve a problem, that you have expressed a feeling that someone else had. all nearly accidental, really... but although i turn away from others to hear myself, i live for that confirmation. it is the hope of the writer to be heard by a worthy ear.
***
the "nu'n honey" (my nickname for the h1n1) may have struck my wife. she has been suffering from a lot of intestinal issues this week. i stay up with her from about 2 in the morning. the daytime is kind of hard; it is hard to stay at full strength. somehow, i haven't caught what she has, or at least, i haven't been symptomatic...
last "night" we ate at hy's (using a gift certificate, and calling in a favor to babysit). it was nice. i had the "delmonico" (?), which was perhaps the best 14 oz. steak i have ever had. for me, the most important thing about steak is the "juiciness" and the tenderness. one thing i cannot stand is a dry piece of meat. and last night's was awesome. my wife had filet mignon, which was also pretty decent.
afterwards, lynn and i walked about waikiki. mildly interesting. i thought once more of the strange juxtaposition between these tourists who are here to relax, and these poor homeless-looking street performers or these people who have to hand out flyers to passers by, these people who you can tell are pretty desperate, and have to eke out their living doing crap... most of the street performers have something cute to offer... there is one guy who looks really creepy; he just stands there with this white gunk on his face, a blond wig, dirty clothes and an umbrella. he looks vaguely like the puppet doll from saw. and he just stands there. i don't know if people are supposed to feel sorry for him, or scared, or what. but he doesn't seem to get any money, no one wants to stop for him. and yet, he was there the last time i was in waikiki, a few weeks ago...
we went to the apple store. i might buy lynn a new macbook, especially because they have a deal where college students can get a new ipod touch with their purchase... it would be a small thing for my wife, who does so much for me.
***
well, the birds are all singing now, saying their good mornings to the world. i am feeling burnt from the inside from staying up with lynn. i should rest, at least for a half hour or so, before the demands of the day call me.
in the light of day, under the heat of scrutiny, those who live abovegrounds, comfortable with superficial and idle chatter, they note the stink, they comment on the way the toad-words look as though they were made to be crushed, pink tongue sticking out as though to participate in some cosmic joke... but no one thinks much of them, or the message that they may have inchoately attempted to give the world. like marathon, the first runner to give that race a name, with a message no one cared to receive; even if someone died in the process.
***
i have come to the conclusion that my words are dark and call to mind some ugliness within or beneath that people don't want to think about. or, my words are like crushed toads that people idly comment on and ignore.
i have been thinking about what people like to hear. i have tried to read works that have been more "well-received." i can appreciate the writings of others, but not always, and i think that in some cases, what is "well-received" has just been "well-packaged" or "well-promoted." in any case, i don't resonate with everything...
and i guess that's the point.
as a writer (or would be, or wanna be writer), there is a tension between a need to create a unique expression of one's inner self, and the need to reach others. if you rely too much on the former need, then you run the risk of solipsism, or at the very least, a myopic view of your world. if you rely too much on the latter, then you're commercial, you're superficial, you aren't yourself any longer.
i have tried to use my writing as a bridge. i have always relied on the basic hope that what i express from within is true, and, if received by the properly shaped emptiness in others, will find resonance. that was my dream, in any case. and, it seems, a few friends did find some degree of resonance; they appreciated what i was trying to do. they discovered the humanity within me, which i had been trying to communicate. and for that, i am grateful.
i suppose i should be happy with that. and i am. i suppose that, like many writers, i was getting greedy, and had this hidden seed planted within my head that my work would be accessible and interesting to many people. but i think i should have been more realistic. i think i should have known myself, and my writing, as other REAL people would see it.
i am thoroughly uninteresting and depressing. i struggle with art because, like the toad stuck in the well, something within wants out. there is no question of its ugliness or relevance for me (although i do try to "dress things up" to fit the conventions of literature). there is only the need to "out" myself, to "ex" plain myself.
people turn away. people are silent.
and why not? the world above is a competition for attention. it is a veritable cacophany. and this is as it should be. it is what keeps the world unstable and stable at the same time, this continual partiality of voice and partiality of listening. no one can contain the voice of the world. we pretend to, with this globalism, with this internet. but there is no voice, there is no one voice, there is not even a nexus or center. each speaks his own suffering and his own hope. we are all just empty boxes, and sometimes something in the world moves us. there is no pattern to this. there is no catching the wind.
it is my personal predilection, but i am always turning away from other people. inevitably unreliable. as i am. the only truth is the feeling and intuition that drives words and acts. and the only confirmation of truth is the occasional nod that you have made a difference, that you have helped to solve a problem, that you have expressed a feeling that someone else had. all nearly accidental, really... but although i turn away from others to hear myself, i live for that confirmation. it is the hope of the writer to be heard by a worthy ear.
***
the "nu'n honey" (my nickname for the h1n1) may have struck my wife. she has been suffering from a lot of intestinal issues this week. i stay up with her from about 2 in the morning. the daytime is kind of hard; it is hard to stay at full strength. somehow, i haven't caught what she has, or at least, i haven't been symptomatic...
last "night" we ate at hy's (using a gift certificate, and calling in a favor to babysit). it was nice. i had the "delmonico" (?), which was perhaps the best 14 oz. steak i have ever had. for me, the most important thing about steak is the "juiciness" and the tenderness. one thing i cannot stand is a dry piece of meat. and last night's was awesome. my wife had filet mignon, which was also pretty decent.
afterwards, lynn and i walked about waikiki. mildly interesting. i thought once more of the strange juxtaposition between these tourists who are here to relax, and these poor homeless-looking street performers or these people who have to hand out flyers to passers by, these people who you can tell are pretty desperate, and have to eke out their living doing crap... most of the street performers have something cute to offer... there is one guy who looks really creepy; he just stands there with this white gunk on his face, a blond wig, dirty clothes and an umbrella. he looks vaguely like the puppet doll from saw. and he just stands there. i don't know if people are supposed to feel sorry for him, or scared, or what. but he doesn't seem to get any money, no one wants to stop for him. and yet, he was there the last time i was in waikiki, a few weeks ago...
we went to the apple store. i might buy lynn a new macbook, especially because they have a deal where college students can get a new ipod touch with their purchase... it would be a small thing for my wife, who does so much for me.
***
well, the birds are all singing now, saying their good mornings to the world. i am feeling burnt from the inside from staying up with lynn. i should rest, at least for a half hour or so, before the demands of the day call me.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
bloody blah-dee dah
auto-spin cycle
thick with sugar
and oxy-clean
to remove the stains
of blood from blood
is the work too taxing,
and unseen?
i wonder how it keeps it up
who spins the drum
without getting bored
of rinse spin
repeat?
and yet it turns
another day
another dollar
lost in the pocket
bleached in the inner wash
forever unspent.
thick with sugar
and oxy-clean
to remove the stains
of blood from blood
is the work too taxing,
and unseen?
i wonder how it keeps it up
who spins the drum
without getting bored
of rinse spin
repeat?
and yet it turns
another day
another dollar
lost in the pocket
bleached in the inner wash
forever unspent.
frog in the throat
i.
unevolved
without words to reference
or contextualize
indecisive punctuation
not knowing whether to ask
or declare
or merely pause.
polywog.
polypotential.
somehow pollyana
despite inhabiting
inchoate darkness
unknowing of
where one ends
and the world begins.
ii.
getting a leg up
to be bolder than the sysiphian
boulder
the secret copied from
another mode of transport
through another medium
solid surfaces acting and
reacting against one another.
if only there were
a ground to kiss and talk to
in the tunnel of this throat.
if only too the world above
didn't burn, and this
elaborate feather-like
apparatus would become
vestigial.
iii.
i'm ready for the world
with a bound up potential
of energy wound within
my legs.
scientists once proved
voltaic cells through these very legs
legs which taste the same
as other beings that could fly
and cross roads
and lay conundrum eggs.
and the air fills me like a bubble
and i would burst into a song.
but somehow the egress is blocked
and i must sit and squat
in the bottom of this well
waiting for some princess
to drop a golden bauble
so i can pretend a role
in someone else's fairy tale.
unevolved
without words to reference
or contextualize
indecisive punctuation
not knowing whether to ask
or declare
or merely pause.
polywog.
polypotential.
somehow pollyana
despite inhabiting
inchoate darkness
unknowing of
where one ends
and the world begins.
ii.
getting a leg up
to be bolder than the sysiphian
boulder
the secret copied from
another mode of transport
through another medium
solid surfaces acting and
reacting against one another.
if only there were
a ground to kiss and talk to
in the tunnel of this throat.
if only too the world above
didn't burn, and this
elaborate feather-like
apparatus would become
vestigial.
iii.
i'm ready for the world
with a bound up potential
of energy wound within
my legs.
scientists once proved
voltaic cells through these very legs
legs which taste the same
as other beings that could fly
and cross roads
and lay conundrum eggs.
and the air fills me like a bubble
and i would burst into a song.
but somehow the egress is blocked
and i must sit and squat
in the bottom of this well
waiting for some princess
to drop a golden bauble
so i can pretend a role
in someone else's fairy tale.
Monday, June 8, 2009
the wounds are still fresh
this afternoon, i returned the pictures i had used for my grandma's slideshow to my aunty kiyomi. while i was there, i had a long talk with my aunty (whom i hardly ever talk to) about a lot of things: special ed (she's actually a district resource teacher in special ed, and popped up at the school i was student-teaching at every now and again), and also how things have been since my grandma has died.
i suppose i have been keeping my feelings at bay, thinking about stuff. nevertheless, i have been feeling generally morose and depressed, and have consistently been waking up at 2 or 3 am, to the sound of the wind-up bird. i feel guilty a lot. i haven't gone to my ewa beach grandma's house, even though i know that there's a lot of clean-up work that has to be done there: the messy work of going through memorabilia and deciding what gets kept and what gets thrown away... also, apparently, my grandma's house, which was a fukyosho (mission station) had to have the sacred thingie (i'm sorry, the correct japanese term escapes me at the moment) removed and sent back to japan. very sad. i think my grandma had some faint hopes that i would take over her fukyosho... but i have been such a bad tenrikyo follower...
my uncle masao has taken the brunt of the responsibility. before she died, my uncle went over to my grandma's house about 2 or 3 times a week to care for the house, and to address any of my grandma's needs. now that she's gone, he still continues to go there, watering the plants, and, now, sorting through everything. he decided to get the house fumigated for termites, which have been an ongoing problem with the house...
funny. it's the perfect house for my grandma and grandpa, and i personally wouldn't change a thing about it. but by objective standards, it's not a great place to live in, and is unsuitable to rent...
my aunt mentioned that she's always worried about my uncle. of all the people, despite his brusque and sardonic nature, it was probably he who took the loss of my grandma the hardest... he even said, when my grandma died, that his purpose for living was gone.
i've been busy, yes, but i have to take care of my family. i have to make the trek out to ewa beach, and confront the loss as directly as possible. and i have to help my uncle and aunt. maybe this can be an opportunity for me to get closer to these members of my family, whom i have always respected, but know very little about...
my uncle, by the way, was a source of culture for me. when i was very young, he gave me a whole set of gahan wilson books, including "nuts", and a heavy metal book (pretty pornographic) on the myth of ulysses. i recall the sex scene between odysseus/ulysses and circe being particularly risque... and athena had this metal "bra" in reverse (the top "covered" and the bottom exposed)... jeez. memories. my uncle also gave me a bunch of ghost story records and tapes... some, i've actually found the audio files for, and posted... he also painted (calligraphy) a little zen piece: "mu o toose!" i think he was kinda making fun of me when i went to japan to pretend to be a monk. then again, i'm not sure... he once mentioned that he found enlightenment one hot sweaty afternoon... i was never sure if he was being facetious, or if he meant it. in any case, he's a man of great depths.
yes. i need to get my life in gear, and take care of the still-hurt people around me. as my grandma always quoted (from tenrikyo scripture): save others to save yourself.
i suppose i have been keeping my feelings at bay, thinking about stuff. nevertheless, i have been feeling generally morose and depressed, and have consistently been waking up at 2 or 3 am, to the sound of the wind-up bird. i feel guilty a lot. i haven't gone to my ewa beach grandma's house, even though i know that there's a lot of clean-up work that has to be done there: the messy work of going through memorabilia and deciding what gets kept and what gets thrown away... also, apparently, my grandma's house, which was a fukyosho (mission station) had to have the sacred thingie (i'm sorry, the correct japanese term escapes me at the moment) removed and sent back to japan. very sad. i think my grandma had some faint hopes that i would take over her fukyosho... but i have been such a bad tenrikyo follower...
my uncle masao has taken the brunt of the responsibility. before she died, my uncle went over to my grandma's house about 2 or 3 times a week to care for the house, and to address any of my grandma's needs. now that she's gone, he still continues to go there, watering the plants, and, now, sorting through everything. he decided to get the house fumigated for termites, which have been an ongoing problem with the house...
funny. it's the perfect house for my grandma and grandpa, and i personally wouldn't change a thing about it. but by objective standards, it's not a great place to live in, and is unsuitable to rent...
my aunt mentioned that she's always worried about my uncle. of all the people, despite his brusque and sardonic nature, it was probably he who took the loss of my grandma the hardest... he even said, when my grandma died, that his purpose for living was gone.
i've been busy, yes, but i have to take care of my family. i have to make the trek out to ewa beach, and confront the loss as directly as possible. and i have to help my uncle and aunt. maybe this can be an opportunity for me to get closer to these members of my family, whom i have always respected, but know very little about...
my uncle, by the way, was a source of culture for me. when i was very young, he gave me a whole set of gahan wilson books, including "nuts", and a heavy metal book (pretty pornographic) on the myth of ulysses. i recall the sex scene between odysseus/ulysses and circe being particularly risque... and athena had this metal "bra" in reverse (the top "covered" and the bottom exposed)... jeez. memories. my uncle also gave me a bunch of ghost story records and tapes... some, i've actually found the audio files for, and posted... he also painted (calligraphy) a little zen piece: "mu o toose!" i think he was kinda making fun of me when i went to japan to pretend to be a monk. then again, i'm not sure... he once mentioned that he found enlightenment one hot sweaty afternoon... i was never sure if he was being facetious, or if he meant it. in any case, he's a man of great depths.
yes. i need to get my life in gear, and take care of the still-hurt people around me. as my grandma always quoted (from tenrikyo scripture): save others to save yourself.
hama kudari
this is from a blog: http://www.minkantaishi.org/uuc/yoron/english/jat/Journal.files/april/april.htm
***
Hama Kudari
It`s pretty cool when Yoron has its own holidays. Yesterday was Hama Kudari and after lunch everyone took the day off. I`m still unsure of true the significance of the holiday but it has something to do with gods, the ocean, new-born babies and feet.
Everyone went to the beach and for about five hours we searched for shells and clams. The tide was really low so we took a boat out to the reef and walked for what felt like miles. Me and Senta went "shako hunting" (shako is a large white clam) which was really hard because the big ones were wedged in between rocks and we had to hammer them out.
At dusk we headed back to shore and had a huge bbq and drank. All the new born babies from the Nama area were blessed and their feet were washed. The yusen flowed like a raging river and I managed to stumble through two sugar cane fields on my way home.
***
interesting. i began with the name yagoro, because it was supposedly the name of a famous kappa who originated the phrase "kappa no kawa nagare." but as i googled the name yagoro, i found that 1) it was an archery term meaning the instant before release; and 2) there is a festival called yagoro-don, in which an effigy of yagoro, some leader of a rebellious clan, is raised in a parade to appease the spirit of yagoro. this festival originates in something called the hama kudari, which, interestingly enough, has something to do with "new born babies and feet."
for those of you paying attention to this blog, i'm writing a story about kappa. and the name of the kappa is yagoro. it's interesting, but as i search the associations down, there appears to be some kind of resonance going on. i'll have to research hama kudari further. if any of you have any input, please.
***
Hama Kudari
It`s pretty cool when Yoron has its own holidays. Yesterday was Hama Kudari and after lunch everyone took the day off. I`m still unsure of true the significance of the holiday but it has something to do with gods, the ocean, new-born babies and feet.
Everyone went to the beach and for about five hours we searched for shells and clams. The tide was really low so we took a boat out to the reef and walked for what felt like miles. Me and Senta went "shako hunting" (shako is a large white clam) which was really hard because the big ones were wedged in between rocks and we had to hammer them out.
At dusk we headed back to shore and had a huge bbq and drank. All the new born babies from the Nama area were blessed and their feet were washed. The yusen flowed like a raging river and I managed to stumble through two sugar cane fields on my way home.
***
interesting. i began with the name yagoro, because it was supposedly the name of a famous kappa who originated the phrase "kappa no kawa nagare." but as i googled the name yagoro, i found that 1) it was an archery term meaning the instant before release; and 2) there is a festival called yagoro-don, in which an effigy of yagoro, some leader of a rebellious clan, is raised in a parade to appease the spirit of yagoro. this festival originates in something called the hama kudari, which, interestingly enough, has something to do with "new born babies and feet."
for those of you paying attention to this blog, i'm writing a story about kappa. and the name of the kappa is yagoro. it's interesting, but as i search the associations down, there appears to be some kind of resonance going on. i'll have to research hama kudari further. if any of you have any input, please.
i have been really struggling with the story "amphibious." perhaps i have been too ambitious, and have been attempting to incorporate too many symbolic elements. and writing about the distant past is extremely difficult; admittedly, all retrospective literature requires a kind of reconstruction and fabrication, but there's a certain level of plausibility that must be maintained- and, in the pitched battle of writing a story, it's easy to forget where that level is... i at times sit and just write out "scaffolding" (plot lines) over and over and over. in the car, i turn off the music, and will just think about the question "what's next", and attack plot lines from all angles. it's frustrating, depressing.
there are two paths to writing a story, or rather, there are two minds. one, which i term the intuitive path, involves both the flash and flow of insight. i wish i could write in this state all the time, but unfortunately, the "river runs dry." still, a piece of this aspect must be incorporated into a story, or there is no "inspiration," no feeling, and without feeling, the story dies. the second path is the analytical path, the path of the editor or critic. this is the "hedge trimmer." it doesn't have life in and of itself, but it can see the shape of things, and can discern incompatibilities, implausibilities. i think the union of these two paths can produce something interesting- if they don't wind up "killing" each other in the process.
i am excellent at critiquing my own work. perhaps too good. i think i am at the point where i can't write a paragraph without giving up, knowing that i'm heading for the cutting blade of analysis...
***
i watched part of a video on north korea. if you haven't heard, the two asian american journalists have been sentenced to 12 years of hard labor. i'd like to be hopeful, but considering north korea's "face-saving" and belligerent (to the point of irrationality) behavior, i don't think it's likely that the u.s. can reason and negotiate to free them. we've already applied pressure to try to get n. korea to stop missile testing, etc., and that hasn't worked. besides, sanctions tend to only hurt the n. korean populace (not the elites); famine-stricken and dying.
i heard on npr that you can google n. korea (google-map). you can see the palatial estates of the elites. and, in one region, you can see a large "street market" that has spontaneously come into being over the years. i read recently that pyongyang was stymied (or at least delayed) in its efforts to regulate such markets because of overwhelming protests. a sign that the "great leader" is perhaps being questioned?
again, i watched part of a video on north korea. you should see it. it's called "welcome to north korea," and it is on youtube. it lasts about an hour. in any case, it has unprecedented footage inside north korea. one of the most poignant and representative scenes, i felt, was a single policewoman (traffic cop) in the middle of an intersection (she was circled in white), directing traffic in a DEAD city. NO cars. that's what much of the tour was like for these journalists; visiting huge expensive monuments, in which they were practically the only visitors...
***
again, i have been feeling an overwhelming sadness and depression at times.
charlotte joko beck (an american zen writer/priest/whatever) once wrote something about suffering. she said that most of the pain ("suffering") we feel comes from resisting or emoting or otherwise not properly sinking in to the moment. but if we become suffering, then suffering disappears. it's just us.
i know i've felt this. i need to feel this again.
i've been talking about calm. yeah, outwardly, i'm pretty calm. but inside, i'm sometimes so sad and tired that i'm rebelling, screaming even, for the moments to pass into oblivion. but i try to tell myself to "calm" and "sink." i literally feel myself sinking inside my own skin, into the skin of the moment. and it makes me feel "better" or "alive."
from this perspective, the world has no intention. everything is just falling, if not into my placing, then into the universe's. my job is not to judge or choose, but to accept what falls, and to deal with it as best i can. there's peace in this. but it has to be an ongoing, never ending practice.
even with writing, which sometimes feels as though it tears me apart, i believe in this, in the possibility of finding peace in all processes. it's my only salvation, i think.
i hope all people can find peace and calm in their lives; but it's my belief that they have to settle in and find it themselves. it's the easiest thing to do, an option i believe is available to anyone in any circumstance: just sink into yourself and your suffering. it can feel at times like the gateway to death (and in a way it is), but it's the only way to find life.
here i go again, getting pseudo-metaphysical... it's 3 am, the time when i float off on tangents instead of sleeping... like pandora, there are all the evils of the world to worry about, but i try to end all days (and nights) with hope.
hope, the last of all.
there are two paths to writing a story, or rather, there are two minds. one, which i term the intuitive path, involves both the flash and flow of insight. i wish i could write in this state all the time, but unfortunately, the "river runs dry." still, a piece of this aspect must be incorporated into a story, or there is no "inspiration," no feeling, and without feeling, the story dies. the second path is the analytical path, the path of the editor or critic. this is the "hedge trimmer." it doesn't have life in and of itself, but it can see the shape of things, and can discern incompatibilities, implausibilities. i think the union of these two paths can produce something interesting- if they don't wind up "killing" each other in the process.
i am excellent at critiquing my own work. perhaps too good. i think i am at the point where i can't write a paragraph without giving up, knowing that i'm heading for the cutting blade of analysis...
***
i watched part of a video on north korea. if you haven't heard, the two asian american journalists have been sentenced to 12 years of hard labor. i'd like to be hopeful, but considering north korea's "face-saving" and belligerent (to the point of irrationality) behavior, i don't think it's likely that the u.s. can reason and negotiate to free them. we've already applied pressure to try to get n. korea to stop missile testing, etc., and that hasn't worked. besides, sanctions tend to only hurt the n. korean populace (not the elites); famine-stricken and dying.
i heard on npr that you can google n. korea (google-map). you can see the palatial estates of the elites. and, in one region, you can see a large "street market" that has spontaneously come into being over the years. i read recently that pyongyang was stymied (or at least delayed) in its efforts to regulate such markets because of overwhelming protests. a sign that the "great leader" is perhaps being questioned?
again, i watched part of a video on north korea. you should see it. it's called "welcome to north korea," and it is on youtube. it lasts about an hour. in any case, it has unprecedented footage inside north korea. one of the most poignant and representative scenes, i felt, was a single policewoman (traffic cop) in the middle of an intersection (she was circled in white), directing traffic in a DEAD city. NO cars. that's what much of the tour was like for these journalists; visiting huge expensive monuments, in which they were practically the only visitors...
***
again, i have been feeling an overwhelming sadness and depression at times.
charlotte joko beck (an american zen writer/priest/whatever) once wrote something about suffering. she said that most of the pain ("suffering") we feel comes from resisting or emoting or otherwise not properly sinking in to the moment. but if we become suffering, then suffering disappears. it's just us.
i know i've felt this. i need to feel this again.
i've been talking about calm. yeah, outwardly, i'm pretty calm. but inside, i'm sometimes so sad and tired that i'm rebelling, screaming even, for the moments to pass into oblivion. but i try to tell myself to "calm" and "sink." i literally feel myself sinking inside my own skin, into the skin of the moment. and it makes me feel "better" or "alive."
from this perspective, the world has no intention. everything is just falling, if not into my placing, then into the universe's. my job is not to judge or choose, but to accept what falls, and to deal with it as best i can. there's peace in this. but it has to be an ongoing, never ending practice.
even with writing, which sometimes feels as though it tears me apart, i believe in this, in the possibility of finding peace in all processes. it's my only salvation, i think.
i hope all people can find peace and calm in their lives; but it's my belief that they have to settle in and find it themselves. it's the easiest thing to do, an option i believe is available to anyone in any circumstance: just sink into yourself and your suffering. it can feel at times like the gateway to death (and in a way it is), but it's the only way to find life.
here i go again, getting pseudo-metaphysical... it's 3 am, the time when i float off on tangents instead of sleeping... like pandora, there are all the evils of the world to worry about, but i try to end all days (and nights) with hope.
hope, the last of all.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
negative zero: spin off bs
it's not so much a mathematical impossibility as it is
a conflict of defined terms.
zero is by definition neither positive nor negative.
therefore to speak of negative zero
it to involve zero in a world in which
it does not belong.
but it can be real, nonetheless, in the human world,
where terms, clearly defined or otherwise,
are continually redefined or recontextualized,
bandied about and mishandled and mislabeled
so that what has an ostensibly objective definition
can be held to mean something else entirely.
in a world that affirms positives and participation,
for example, negative zero exists
to demarcate the disapproval of the one (or zero)
who stands apart.
this in turn forces a question, a thoroughly human question,
of objective reality, mathematical definitions,
and the manner in which the human social fabric holds these things-
literally holds them-
in high or low regard.
for whatever one may be "in truth" and "apart,"
one is also a human being,
and social,
and vulnerable to the effects of other social human beings.
and, whether possible or not,
zero may mean what it cannot mean,
it may try to mean what it implicitly is not...
a conflict of defined terms.
zero is by definition neither positive nor negative.
therefore to speak of negative zero
it to involve zero in a world in which
it does not belong.
but it can be real, nonetheless, in the human world,
where terms, clearly defined or otherwise,
are continually redefined or recontextualized,
bandied about and mishandled and mislabeled
so that what has an ostensibly objective definition
can be held to mean something else entirely.
in a world that affirms positives and participation,
for example, negative zero exists
to demarcate the disapproval of the one (or zero)
who stands apart.
this in turn forces a question, a thoroughly human question,
of objective reality, mathematical definitions,
and the manner in which the human social fabric holds these things-
literally holds them-
in high or low regard.
for whatever one may be "in truth" and "apart,"
one is also a human being,
and social,
and vulnerable to the effects of other social human beings.
and, whether possible or not,
zero may mean what it cannot mean,
it may try to mean what it implicitly is not...
mimetic paradox, eric gans...
link: http://www.anthropoetics.ucla.edu/ap0102/mimesis.htm
Mimesis
Imitation leaves its ontology unthematized; it knows only that since you are like me, I can do as you do. Mimesis thematizes its ontology. This great misunderstood concept of the metaphysical tradition was confined by Aristotle's Poetics to the esthetic domain for over two millennia until Girard gave it its due by revealing that human desire, and the human as such, obey the paradoxical structure of mimesis.
Imitation of behavior among similar creatures is generally unproblematic. More precisely, I can imitate your actions unproblematically so long as they do not involve the appropriation of a scarce object that we both desire to possess. But the search for such objects is precisely the kind of behavior that makes imitation advantageous. The evolution of higher animals has been driven by the difficulty of obtaining appetitive satisfaction, particularly food. If I serve as your model in the hunt, all will go well until your imitation reaches the point of reproducing my appropriative gesture toward the same object. At this point imitation provokes rivalry; the mimetic model becomes an obstacle.
The becoming-obstacle of the model is not in itself uniquely human. At the most elementary level of imitation, when a swarm of animals gather around a source of nourishment, each one becomes sooner or later an obstacle for the others. But the energy and attention of members of the group are directed to the prey, not to one another. If they do enter into conflict, or even begin to devour each other, this remains incidental to the appropriative operation that ultimately benefits the swarm and the species to which it belongs. The mimetic obstacle is there, but it remains epiphenomenal with respect to the benefit conferred by imitation.
Mimesis
Imitation leaves its ontology unthematized; it knows only that since you are like me, I can do as you do. Mimesis thematizes its ontology. This great misunderstood concept of the metaphysical tradition was confined by Aristotle's Poetics to the esthetic domain for over two millennia until Girard gave it its due by revealing that human desire, and the human as such, obey the paradoxical structure of mimesis.
Imitation of behavior among similar creatures is generally unproblematic. More precisely, I can imitate your actions unproblematically so long as they do not involve the appropriation of a scarce object that we both desire to possess. But the search for such objects is precisely the kind of behavior that makes imitation advantageous. The evolution of higher animals has been driven by the difficulty of obtaining appetitive satisfaction, particularly food. If I serve as your model in the hunt, all will go well until your imitation reaches the point of reproducing my appropriative gesture toward the same object. At this point imitation provokes rivalry; the mimetic model becomes an obstacle.
The becoming-obstacle of the model is not in itself uniquely human. At the most elementary level of imitation, when a swarm of animals gather around a source of nourishment, each one becomes sooner or later an obstacle for the others. But the energy and attention of members of the group are directed to the prey, not to one another. If they do enter into conflict, or even begin to devour each other, this remains incidental to the appropriative operation that ultimately benefits the swarm and the species to which it belongs. The mimetic obstacle is there, but it remains epiphenomenal with respect to the benefit conferred by imitation.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
reckoner, again, from the basement
again, i love this song. the band seems so into it all. i imagine that there's salvation in art, even art about how frigging terrible life is, because it's a whole-hearted full-bodied scream. a sincerity that can't be denied. a center that ripples the world around it. it's not a way out, but it's a way to be real.
i know there are people dealing with grief out there. compounded with financial woes. i feel you. i feel your pain. or, at least, my (small) version of it.
i can't seem to untangle myself from the chain tying me to this boulder. i keep trying, but there doesn't seem to be anything that works. i think a lot of my "activity" (creative, and otherwise) are all just ploys to distract me, or to even fake or prop up a semblance of normalcy, productivity. but everything i do rings hollow. and the nights are terrible: feeling so very tired, but anxious because of all the impossible demands that are placed on me daily.
it's so easy for me to get bitter, but i won't. no one can help me. no one can save me. i think some people can ask for help and get it, but it doesn't seem to work for me. either my "pain" isn't sincere or deep enough (after all, pain is subjective, eh?), or it's so deep that people can't reach me, stretching an arm into my tartarus...
i'm so grateful for my wife and children, who seem to be bearing along cheerfully, and supporting my downward spiral. without them, i don't know where i'd be. stuck in a hopeless gravity well.
i wish sometimes that i could just sleep forever...
... odd. i just heard the wind-up bird just now. there is this bird that lives in the gully behind my house. for the past few nights, i would spontaneously wake up at around 2 in the morning, and i would hear this bird sing its strange cry. it always seems to end its musical phrase with a question: "are [middle] you [low] up [high]?" over and over it sings this. it is a cheerful sound, and sometimes (superstitious fool that i am) i imagine that it was sent by my grandmother to urge me on, or something.
but i can't. i can't seem to move this lump of flesh that i've become...
for those of you who know what it's like to be depressed... how it feels to just be so terribly weary of the world and its endless responsibilities... the effort to simply survive through, barely adequate answers to endless questions...
there are no easy answers. i believe we struggle with it, finding apparent but ultimately temporary solutions, following will-o-the-wisps... and i think that we have to. if we seek to affirm life, and our path through it, we have to... if i am defeated, so be it; sometimes, i imagine there would be a relief in that, in the complete surrender... but i try. and i try. and i try.
as my grandmother would say: sometimes, we just gotta live through it. that's our innen.
how i wish she were here today...
the bird i imagine she sends, i will listen to it, when it sings to me in the dead of night. i will try to hear what it is trying to tell me.
the wind-up bird...
i can't seem to untangle myself from the chain tying me to this boulder. i keep trying, but there doesn't seem to be anything that works. i think a lot of my "activity" (creative, and otherwise) are all just ploys to distract me, or to even fake or prop up a semblance of normalcy, productivity. but everything i do rings hollow. and the nights are terrible: feeling so very tired, but anxious because of all the impossible demands that are placed on me daily.
it's so easy for me to get bitter, but i won't. no one can help me. no one can save me. i think some people can ask for help and get it, but it doesn't seem to work for me. either my "pain" isn't sincere or deep enough (after all, pain is subjective, eh?), or it's so deep that people can't reach me, stretching an arm into my tartarus...
i'm so grateful for my wife and children, who seem to be bearing along cheerfully, and supporting my downward spiral. without them, i don't know where i'd be. stuck in a hopeless gravity well.
i wish sometimes that i could just sleep forever...
... odd. i just heard the wind-up bird just now. there is this bird that lives in the gully behind my house. for the past few nights, i would spontaneously wake up at around 2 in the morning, and i would hear this bird sing its strange cry. it always seems to end its musical phrase with a question: "are [middle] you [low] up [high]?" over and over it sings this. it is a cheerful sound, and sometimes (superstitious fool that i am) i imagine that it was sent by my grandmother to urge me on, or something.
but i can't. i can't seem to move this lump of flesh that i've become...
for those of you who know what it's like to be depressed... how it feels to just be so terribly weary of the world and its endless responsibilities... the effort to simply survive through, barely adequate answers to endless questions...
there are no easy answers. i believe we struggle with it, finding apparent but ultimately temporary solutions, following will-o-the-wisps... and i think that we have to. if we seek to affirm life, and our path through it, we have to... if i am defeated, so be it; sometimes, i imagine there would be a relief in that, in the complete surrender... but i try. and i try. and i try.
as my grandmother would say: sometimes, we just gotta live through it. that's our innen.
how i wish she were here today...
the bird i imagine she sends, i will listen to it, when it sings to me in the dead of night. i will try to hear what it is trying to tell me.
the wind-up bird...
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