http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fork_(filesystem)
be saying more about this after i get some sleep!
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
En-closure: Consequences of Consciousness?
As we are asked to wrap-up a presentation of the consequences of this class on our thoughts, I am discovering that it is quite impossible to enclose everything, as even one idea absorbed from the class has taken on a life of its own and proliferated like mad throughout my system (really, an idea is a like a parasite! :)).
But I have come back often to the idea of art as luxury in my reflections. Of all the organisms on this planet, humans are the only ones who waste--irreparably so because this waste is produced in excess, and so cannot escape its enclosure as waste (in nature, decomposition would return the elements of waste to a form better capable of interaction). Waste, however, is a byproduct of the excess/luxury/opulence on which humans thrive. Professor Moss brought up an interesting point in a blog post--that the remnants of the Big Bang are essentially just waste.
If one takes this perspective, then humanity currently resides in one big wasteland--a vision quite fitting to what I'm about to discuss.
Of all the organisms on the planet, humans are also the only ones who make art. Yes, art occurs in nature too without intention, but nature doesn't dwell on it...nature uses it for practical purposes of survival. To illustrate:
The intricacy of design on the butterfly and flower might merely be a genetic accident. Beauty here is a tool for physical survival--no more, no less ostentatious. The lithe movements of the cheetah might be described as dance by a human observer, but is merely (here's that word again) a byproduct of a physical adaptation, an optimization for a player in the game of surviving. (The fact that we can view life as a game is both a testament to our consciousness and the room that this consciousness creates for indulgence in such luxurious views.)
Humans hoard art--look at all the fine art museums, private collections, architectural flamboyance that will sacrifice function for aesthetic form, "haute couture." Compare the excessiveness, in style, color, function, most of all, to the natural designs above. These clothes and buildings actually make it harder for people to physically function. But they serve as viewing pleasure, aesthetic stimulation, a drug that humans need as much as food and water; indeed, to feel that they are alive, to strip down and roll in evidence of excess, evidence of waste--evidence of life.
Is this all a product of vanity, yet at the same time, a by-product of consciousness--the awareness that we are Alive, that we have created this system call Time that seems to be running away with our Lives? Because we are aware of such phenomena (and while our more scientifically primitive cousins doggedly go about their business of survival, unquestioning, unwondering, and changing only per chance of mutation), we must devise these systems, indeed, enclosures in order to make sense, in order to process the stimuli that evoke something more than flat images, sounds, smells, textures alone. This is because while we waste, we cannot stand the sight of, the smell of, the idea of waste and consequent decay (landfills are probably the most avoided places on earth); we must not waste the stimuli that come to us, nor the cognitive faculties granted to our species; time is of the essence, and every opportunity must be taken--a consequence of the consciousness of mortality, of inevitable insignificance--to process, to preserve; to slow time down, we escape into the timeless dimension provided by the junction of consciousness with unconsciousness. An example of this junction (a wormhole?) occurs in lucid dreaming. Here's how to do it!
Music, paintings, dance, poems, POAMs; art is not why, but how we live. Art is the locomotive, the machine, the engine that encloses us are we bring ourselves back into reality. It might be one way we transport a piece of the unconscious into conscious life. In this way, art is also a bridge, an integrative tool. Science studies the evidence of this process of art. Do we try to enclose our lives into the poams that we make? Make something permanent of a thought, a fear?
These systems we devise stabilize us, and help us deal with the pain of ephemerality and the constant apprehension that follows. We lug around heavy thought orbits in the intricate systems we build: religions, symphonies, novels, even the scientific method. Though science might study the process of art, it is art itself (is this a consequence of studying art, to become art yourself?). They (and almost any human device) share the common goal of survival. It is just that human survival entails so much of this excessive system devising, the excessive search for Closure because humans recognize, but cannot accept the fact that closure is quite impossible.
Art is a luxury, and luxury is necessary to human subsistence. We are hedonists--creatures of pleasure and comfort, always looking for ways to minimize the greater pain (sometimes we'll even use pain--excessively--to diminish pain). What is the goal in most peoples' lives? To find happiness or contentment, probably. But is that possible with the symptoms of our consciousness already drawing consequences as heavy as art and science? Locusts, lions, bees live to deliver genes. They too know, somewhere up the ladders of their DNA, that their form is not meant to persist, yet the only behavioral sign that belies this fact is the sometimes frantic mating an animal near its time will engage in:
Humans need to be enclosed in order to survive:
The womb, the houses we build, the relationships we forge (expanding our skin through contact with others), and the skull that encloses our brain--the embodiment of our physical selves and those other impalpable selves--are all necessary forms of organization, protection, separation. Symphonies, paintings, and poems serve a similar function, allowing humans not only to survive but to live; for to survive is to live, for a person--and therein lies the difference between humans and animals: for an animal, surviving pertains to the physical; for people, to survive is to take care of the both physical and of the mental/spiritual. The desire to live catalyzes the desire to indulge, to engage systems of excess.
I have brought in many concepts that have been revolving like horses around a merry-go-around for days in my mind. This presentation is far from clear (quite, rare indeed, though I'm certain I burnt something in the process...what is that smell? it smells like...waste!), and the exact relationship between all of these points of light is something that will evolve with the mind that encloses them; a process of excess, I'm sure. I feel like I keep bringing in ideas, creating new interactions without following other interactions all the way down. But is there an all-the-way-down? Perhaps, at least, I owe to the interaction, the spark, to rub the substances more against each, warming myself in the combustion of idea. Ideally, I would love to explore this idea through multiple media--film, audio, written poems, website-building; each poam through each medium contributes to a clearer picture. (the most waste i make, the more enlightened I am?!) Here, though, I and the ideas I express are confined, yet defined by the borders of the written word, still images, and short motion picture clips. Without confinement, there can be no definition, without definition, limited interaction. The shape of the fork must become clear before its tines can be admired, utilized, perhaps even broken.
In this post, and in this blog as a whole, I have (attempted to) explore the different forms a poam can take on, as well as the internal structure of a poam once it has taken on a particular form. The concept of the Limited Fork is exciting and stimulating, as the best ideas always are. The thought system is the product of an act of making itself, evidence of a creator's need to indulge in excess. I've looked through a certain window, and can only wonder now from which window I'll exit or enter again.
To close, for now, a representation--a mapping, a visual enclosure--of my brain on art, my brain fueling creation, in particular, self-creation: I create my brain--
Thank you, for this induction into the Limited Fork locomotive.
But I have come back often to the idea of art as luxury in my reflections. Of all the organisms on this planet, humans are the only ones who waste--irreparably so because this waste is produced in excess, and so cannot escape its enclosure as waste (in nature, decomposition would return the elements of waste to a form better capable of interaction). Waste, however, is a byproduct of the excess/luxury/opulence on which humans thrive. Professor Moss brought up an interesting point in a blog post--that the remnants of the Big Bang are essentially just waste.
If one takes this perspective, then humanity currently resides in one big wasteland--a vision quite fitting to what I'm about to discuss.
Of all the organisms on the planet, humans are also the only ones who make art. Yes, art occurs in nature too without intention, but nature doesn't dwell on it...nature uses it for practical purposes of survival. To illustrate:
The intricacy of design on the butterfly and flower might merely be a genetic accident. Beauty here is a tool for physical survival--no more, no less ostentatious. The lithe movements of the cheetah might be described as dance by a human observer, but is merely (here's that word again) a byproduct of a physical adaptation, an optimization for a player in the game of surviving. (The fact that we can view life as a game is both a testament to our consciousness and the room that this consciousness creates for indulgence in such luxurious views.)
Humans hoard art--look at all the fine art museums, private collections, architectural flamboyance that will sacrifice function for aesthetic form, "haute couture." Compare the excessiveness, in style, color, function, most of all, to the natural designs above. These clothes and buildings actually make it harder for people to physically function. But they serve as viewing pleasure, aesthetic stimulation, a drug that humans need as much as food and water; indeed, to feel that they are alive, to strip down and roll in evidence of excess, evidence of waste--evidence of life.
Is this all a product of vanity, yet at the same time, a by-product of consciousness--the awareness that we are Alive, that we have created this system call Time that seems to be running away with our Lives? Because we are aware of such phenomena (and while our more scientifically primitive cousins doggedly go about their business of survival, unquestioning, unwondering, and changing only per chance of mutation), we must devise these systems, indeed, enclosures in order to make sense, in order to process the stimuli that evoke something more than flat images, sounds, smells, textures alone. This is because while we waste, we cannot stand the sight of, the smell of, the idea of waste and consequent decay (landfills are probably the most avoided places on earth); we must not waste the stimuli that come to us, nor the cognitive faculties granted to our species; time is of the essence, and every opportunity must be taken--a consequence of the consciousness of mortality, of inevitable insignificance--to process, to preserve; to slow time down, we escape into the timeless dimension provided by the junction of consciousness with unconsciousness. An example of this junction (a wormhole?) occurs in lucid dreaming. Here's how to do it!
Music, paintings, dance, poems, POAMs; art is not why, but how we live. Art is the locomotive, the machine, the engine that encloses us are we bring ourselves back into reality. It might be one way we transport a piece of the unconscious into conscious life. In this way, art is also a bridge, an integrative tool. Science studies the evidence of this process of art. Do we try to enclose our lives into the poams that we make? Make something permanent of a thought, a fear?
These systems we devise stabilize us, and help us deal with the pain of ephemerality and the constant apprehension that follows. We lug around heavy thought orbits in the intricate systems we build: religions, symphonies, novels, even the scientific method. Though science might study the process of art, it is art itself (is this a consequence of studying art, to become art yourself?). They (and almost any human device) share the common goal of survival. It is just that human survival entails so much of this excessive system devising, the excessive search for Closure because humans recognize, but cannot accept the fact that closure is quite impossible.
Art is a luxury, and luxury is necessary to human subsistence. We are hedonists--creatures of pleasure and comfort, always looking for ways to minimize the greater pain (sometimes we'll even use pain--excessively--to diminish pain). What is the goal in most peoples' lives? To find happiness or contentment, probably. But is that possible with the symptoms of our consciousness already drawing consequences as heavy as art and science? Locusts, lions, bees live to deliver genes. They too know, somewhere up the ladders of their DNA, that their form is not meant to persist, yet the only behavioral sign that belies this fact is the sometimes frantic mating an animal near its time will engage in:
Humans need to be enclosed in order to survive:
The womb, the houses we build, the relationships we forge (expanding our skin through contact with others), and the skull that encloses our brain--the embodiment of our physical selves and those other impalpable selves--are all necessary forms of organization, protection, separation. Symphonies, paintings, and poems serve a similar function, allowing humans not only to survive but to live; for to survive is to live, for a person--and therein lies the difference between humans and animals: for an animal, surviving pertains to the physical; for people, to survive is to take care of the both physical and of the mental/spiritual. The desire to live catalyzes the desire to indulge, to engage systems of excess.
I have brought in many concepts that have been revolving like horses around a merry-go-around for days in my mind. This presentation is far from clear (quite, rare indeed, though I'm certain I burnt something in the process...what is that smell? it smells like...waste!), and the exact relationship between all of these points of light is something that will evolve with the mind that encloses them; a process of excess, I'm sure. I feel like I keep bringing in ideas, creating new interactions without following other interactions all the way down. But is there an all-the-way-down? Perhaps, at least, I owe to the interaction, the spark, to rub the substances more against each, warming myself in the combustion of idea. Ideally, I would love to explore this idea through multiple media--film, audio, written poems, website-building; each poam through each medium contributes to a clearer picture. (the most waste i make, the more enlightened I am?!) Here, though, I and the ideas I express are confined, yet defined by the borders of the written word, still images, and short motion picture clips. Without confinement, there can be no definition, without definition, limited interaction. The shape of the fork must become clear before its tines can be admired, utilized, perhaps even broken.
In this post, and in this blog as a whole, I have (attempted to) explore the different forms a poam can take on, as well as the internal structure of a poam once it has taken on a particular form. The concept of the Limited Fork is exciting and stimulating, as the best ideas always are. The thought system is the product of an act of making itself, evidence of a creator's need to indulge in excess. I've looked through a certain window, and can only wonder now from which window I'll exit or enter again.
To close, for now, a representation--a mapping, a visual enclosure--of my brain on art, my brain fueling creation, in particular, self-creation: I create my brain--
Thank you, for this induction into the Limited Fork locomotive.
Time as a Runaway System!
Interesting article from the Telegraph online:
By Tom Chivers
Quite a curveball perspective. So what happens after "time" stops? It makes me think that time is activity-dependent. Without change, there exists no need for markers of progress, which is what time essentially serves as. Or is there a bigger time outside of this time? A piece of art then, a living "photograph" of sorts (in that it interacts with a subject in a time frame different from that which it was born), can no longer transcend time in this eternal, infinite state of stagnancy. It seems like such a waste of material...who's going to look at this cosmic snapshot? The system of time and all of the subsystems that humans devise, all of which depend on time as an enclosure, as a tether (in order to freeze, in order to examine later; as proof of prior existence), would...vanish? This takes the idea that time exists only to those who can understand it outside of that person; the idea/system is no longer only in the control of its maker (which, strangely, exists as a subsystem within a system born out of itself), but takes on a life of its own, and perhaps, even comes back to control the destiny of that very maker.
Time is running out - literally, says scientist
By Tom Chivers
Last Updated: 6:01am GMT 18/12/2007
It's the end of the world - but not as we know it.
A Spanish scientist suggests that the universe's end will come not with a bang but standstill - that time is literally running out and will, one day, stop altogether.
Professor Jose Senovilla, of the University of the Basque Country, Bilbao, has put forward the theory as a rival to the idea of "dark energy" - the strange antigravitational force that is posited to explain a cosmic phenomenon that has baffled scientists. It was noticed ten years ago that distant stars - the ones on the very fringes of the universe - seemed to be moving faster than those nearer to the centre, suggesting that they were accelerating as they shot through space. Dark energy was suggested as a possible means of powering that acceleration. The problem is that no-one has any idea what it is or where it comes from. Professor Senovilla's theory does away altogether with dark energy. Instead, he says, the appearance of acceleration is caused by time itself gradually slowing down, like a clock that needs winding. "Our calculations show that we would think that the expansion of the universe is accelerating," said Senovilla. He takes the basis for his idea from the superstring theory, which suggests that dimensions of time and space can move around and change places. His suggestion is that our solitary time dimension is slowly becoming a new space dimension. In some number of billions of years, time would cease to be time altogether - and everything will stop. "Then everything will be frozen, like a snapshot of one instant, forever," Prof Senovilla told New Scientist magazine. "Our planet will be long gone by then." While the theory is outlandish, it is not without support. Prof Gary Gibbons, a cosmologist at Cambridge University, believes the idea has merit. "We believe that time emerged during the Big Bang, and if time can emerge, it can also disappear - that's just the reverse effect," he said. |
Monday, December 10, 2007
Infinite Fractionation?
I stumbled upon this interview with David Foster Wallace, author of Infinite Jest, a book I've been meaning to read for a while, but haven't quite gotten around to. I thought it was interesting for another writer to express the idea of branching we discussed in class in such familiar terms:
Totally cool! This reminds me of what I discussed one evening after class with Professor Moss about formlessness and attainment of such in the material world. It seems like in the language of mathematics, this ubiquity is not only permitted but prevalent. I like how Wallace translates/transcribes this body/instrument/illustration/poam of mathematics into the realm of language and an expression more relevant/ubiquitous (words keep branching off their neighbors) to general human living.
So with an infinite boundary, are dead ends possible? One could keep expanding forever, yet still be contained within this indescribable boundary...the end of infinity would be the dead end, an end one cannot technically reach.
MICHAEL SILVERBLATT: I don't know how, exactly, to talk about this book, so I'm going to be reliant upon you to kind of guide me. But something came into my head that may be entirely imaginary, which seemed to be that the book was written in fractals.
DAVID FOSTER WALLACE: Expand on that.
MS: It occurred to me that the way in which the material is presented allows for a subject to be announced in a small form, then there seems to be a fan of subject matter, other subjects, and then it comes back in a second form containing the other subjects in small, and then comes back again as if what were being described were -- and I don't know this kind of science, but it just -- I said to myself this must be fractals.
DFW: It's -- I've heard you were an acute reader. That's one of the things, structurally, that's going on. It's actually structured like something called a Sierpinski Gasket, which is a very primitive kind of pyramidical fractal, although what was structured as a Sierpinski Gasket was the first- was the draft that I delivered to Michael in '94, and it went through some I think 'mercy cuts', so it's probably kind of a lopsided Sierpinski Gasket now. But it's interesting, that's one of the structural ways that it's supposed to kind of come together.
MS: "Michael" is Michael Pietsche, the editor at Little, Brown. What is a Sierpinski Gasket?
DFW: It would be almost im- ... I would almost have to show you. It's kind of a design that a man named Sierpinski I believe developed -- it was quite a bit before the introduction of fractals and before any of the kind of technologies that fractals are a really useful metaphor for. But it looks basically like a pyramid on acid --
To answer Silverblatt's question, a Sierpinski Gasket is constructed by taking a triangle, removing a triangle-shaped piece out of the middle, then doing the same for the remaining pieces, and so on and so forth, like so:
The result is an object of infinite boundary and zero area -- almost literally everything and nothing at the same time. A Sierpinski Gasket is also self-similar...any smaller triangular portion is an exact replica of the whole gasket. You can see why Wallace would have wanted to structure his novel in this fashion.
Totally cool! This reminds me of what I discussed one evening after class with Professor Moss about formlessness and attainment of such in the material world. It seems like in the language of mathematics, this ubiquity is not only permitted but prevalent. I like how Wallace translates/transcribes this body/instrument/illustration/poam of mathematics into the realm of language and an expression more relevant/ubiquitous (words keep branching off their neighbors) to general human living.
So with an infinite boundary, are dead ends possible? One could keep expanding forever, yet still be contained within this indescribable boundary...the end of infinity would be the dead end, an end one cannot technically reach.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Playdoh Forking
Our group came up with a good two pages--front and back--packed solid with words pertaining to and describing the fork. I would never have thought such a feat could be accomplished, but, as Professor Moss elucidated for me (and indeed as the process of this class demonstrates (for I think the best of classes, or rather, the best of students, should always approach an item as a process...always absorbing, digesting)), creativity is truly the state of open-mindedness, receptivity, or, as I like to think of it, mental fluidity. I do notice that in my most creative states (and they are becoming increasingly rare as the end of the semester approaches...), I am at ease, in tune with both the landscape of my mind and that of the environment/how my body interacts with the environment/how my body interacts with my mind. I am not afraid to welcome obscurities in thought, inconsistencies in sensual perception; I am perhaps at my most calm. Maybe this is close to lucid dreaming? I find that right when I am about to fall asleep (indeed, it feels like "slipping"), I see montages of very strange imagery in my mind, and associations that sometimes don't make dimensional sense. A computer cursor might suddenly evoke the same visceral response as someone's face, or I might decide to go off in four directions at the same time. These images remain as mere traces of fascinating shadow-shows in the waking mind, and can serve as catalysts for something more. What is that something more? I'm not really sure, and feel lacking in the tools necessary to translate them into accessible form.
Wow, I meant to talk about the in-class fork observation. Such unintended digression happens a lot for this class, and I must express how glad that students are given the freedom to explore branches, bubbling, the surface of all things (I love what one of my classmates brought up earlier in the semester--that everything we can see is a surface. Even the core is another surface; this is particularly true when one applies the concept of mathematics to this idea: a solid is the integration of infinitesimal "ribbons," not really "solid" at all). Indeed, indeed, how can one concern herself only with substance when the surface of that very substance remains occluded? Perhaps we should strive always for that strange dream-state association and processing; combine the productive power of the unconscious with the analytical power of the conscious. Is (what we call) genius, then, the ability to maintain this constant level of receptivity, hypersensitivity to stimuli? Is it genius that can seamlessly integrate the many faces of the mind?
There I went again. Seriously, back to forks (although, now that I look at it, those paragraphs above are instances of forking themselves. And so too everything in parentheses. I love parentheses. My writing would be even more of a mess without them!). Our group pounced on the single fork that had some distinguishing characteristic: the one that was aligned upside-down next to its fork-clone brothers. It just made it easier for us, made us feel like we had some reason for picking that particular fork. (It was a necessary tether.) Once we had it, the most obvious place to start was with what we could see. It was clear, plastic, the tines were curved. It was remarkable how those three visual characteristics alone propelled us onto far-off cousin branches, and we were soon speaking in abstract tongues ("the fact that the light bounces most off of the curves of the tines describes the idea that intrusions into uniformity are the most illuminating") that 9-5 mode passerbys would have checked off as hallucinogenically-induced babble. So what's the use of all this up-and-out-the-tree thinking if people get by in life without it? The truth is, everyone probably does it to some degree anyway (I know I did, but just never thought of it within the frame of the forking concept)--it makes life richer, the mind stronger, and the inpalpables of the Being a little more stable.
A week or so later, we got to play around with PLAY-DOH!! This substance was probably my favorite toy in grade school. I could never get enough of the colors, the smell, the nude cylinder out of the plastic cup, pregnant with possibility, the promise of discovery (and hours of fun! until it dried out and married itself to one form). Our group spelled out the word "fork" using letters from four different languages. Language is playdoh (if you take playdoh to be the formless mind) put into form, and consequently becomes a type of playdoh itself. Playdoh offers premium grade forkability, but by itself it is powerless. Quite like an idea. Both need an external force to impress a form upon it. To clarify, take the word "digestion" into account. If you physically digest playdoh, the material will conform to the shape(s) of your digestive tract. To digest an idea, perhaps encapsulated/expressed in a work of art like a poem, one takes it deeper and deeper into the mind via the gravity of thought; until the idea becomes may thoughts, one or several of them novel. It travels down the interborough fissures (Hart Crane's "The Tunnel" I credit for that phrase, which, being a neuroscience/english major, I simply adore and return to often) of the mind, and as it does so, conforms not only to the shape of the existing mind (for the extent of digestion depends on the dimensions of the processor), but also deforms it by creating new connections [there is this GREAT animation/concept I saw in a Brain, Learning, and Memory class last year, but fail to find now: it illustrates how, if the mind were a landscape, learning occurs when that landscape becomes impressed; thus, the more convolution, the more evidence of learning and memory there are (this leads me to wonder, what if the landscape was deformed in a way that two distal ends are brought together, much like a wormhole in space? Is this an instance of forking? We discussed in class how the tines of a fork remained eternally parallel. It looks like a wormhole would be the place where these tines met.).]. It's very fresh and exciting to look at the mind as an "external force!"
Wow, I meant to talk about the in-class fork observation. Such unintended digression happens a lot for this class, and I must express how glad that students are given the freedom to explore branches, bubbling, the surface of all things (I love what one of my classmates brought up earlier in the semester--that everything we can see is a surface. Even the core is another surface; this is particularly true when one applies the concept of mathematics to this idea: a solid is the integration of infinitesimal "ribbons," not really "solid" at all). Indeed, indeed, how can one concern herself only with substance when the surface of that very substance remains occluded? Perhaps we should strive always for that strange dream-state association and processing; combine the productive power of the unconscious with the analytical power of the conscious. Is (what we call) genius, then, the ability to maintain this constant level of receptivity, hypersensitivity to stimuli? Is it genius that can seamlessly integrate the many faces of the mind?
There I went again. Seriously, back to forks (although, now that I look at it, those paragraphs above are instances of forking themselves. And so too everything in parentheses. I love parentheses. My writing would be even more of a mess without them!). Our group pounced on the single fork that had some distinguishing characteristic: the one that was aligned upside-down next to its fork-clone brothers. It just made it easier for us, made us feel like we had some reason for picking that particular fork. (It was a necessary tether.) Once we had it, the most obvious place to start was with what we could see. It was clear, plastic, the tines were curved. It was remarkable how those three visual characteristics alone propelled us onto far-off cousin branches, and we were soon speaking in abstract tongues ("the fact that the light bounces most off of the curves of the tines describes the idea that intrusions into uniformity are the most illuminating") that 9-5 mode passerbys would have checked off as hallucinogenically-induced babble. So what's the use of all this up-and-out-the-tree thinking if people get by in life without it? The truth is, everyone probably does it to some degree anyway (I know I did, but just never thought of it within the frame of the forking concept)--it makes life richer, the mind stronger, and the inpalpables of the Being a little more stable.
A week or so later, we got to play around with PLAY-DOH!! This substance was probably my favorite toy in grade school. I could never get enough of the colors, the smell, the nude cylinder out of the plastic cup, pregnant with possibility, the promise of discovery (and hours of fun! until it dried out and married itself to one form). Our group spelled out the word "fork" using letters from four different languages. Language is playdoh (if you take playdoh to be the formless mind) put into form, and consequently becomes a type of playdoh itself. Playdoh offers premium grade forkability, but by itself it is powerless. Quite like an idea. Both need an external force to impress a form upon it. To clarify, take the word "digestion" into account. If you physically digest playdoh, the material will conform to the shape(s) of your digestive tract. To digest an idea, perhaps encapsulated/expressed in a work of art like a poem, one takes it deeper and deeper into the mind via the gravity of thought; until the idea becomes may thoughts, one or several of them novel. It travels down the interborough fissures (Hart Crane's "The Tunnel" I credit for that phrase, which, being a neuroscience/english major, I simply adore and return to often) of the mind, and as it does so, conforms not only to the shape of the existing mind (for the extent of digestion depends on the dimensions of the processor), but also deforms it by creating new connections [there is this GREAT animation/concept I saw in a Brain, Learning, and Memory class last year, but fail to find now: it illustrates how, if the mind were a landscape, learning occurs when that landscape becomes impressed; thus, the more convolution, the more evidence of learning and memory there are (this leads me to wonder, what if the landscape was deformed in a way that two distal ends are brought together, much like a wormhole in space? Is this an instance of forking? We discussed in class how the tines of a fork remained eternally parallel. It looks like a wormhole would be the place where these tines met.).]. It's very fresh and exciting to look at the mind as an "external force!"
Monday, November 26, 2007
Encounters with Mastodons and other Instances of Luminescence
First of all, allow me to say that the most difficult aspect of this assignment was not to find instances of illumination, but to determine which ones to write down--for if my body were an ideal machine, I would be in a perpetual state of recording such movements of thought! I think often people expect illuminations to be THE Illumination, but, really, is there such a thing? In some religions, that might be death, which would mean it is unattainable in this world, in this consciousness. So all we have are these small windows (I harken back to the mapping project of Dickinson's poem), glimpses of a luminescence so bright as to be invisible. And how many of these windows there are! Once I accepted that it wasn't the thing Illumination I was seeking, but rather the action or process of illuminating, smaller movements in observation and thought, progressions that built on top of each other, I was suddenly conscious of the presence of potential windows everywhere--it just depended on how deeply I chose to go into one or another--and sometimes, a journey into one window led into another.
I'll start off with my in-class venture, the first exercise that drew my attention to the glimmers of luminescence that dotted my field of vision like rays of light fractured onto the sea.
Rodica and I traversed the hallways of the Dude, at first looking for people to share their stories of illumination. We found a couple of willing divulgers, most of whom shared stories of how a favorite book had sharpened their perceptive faculties. One girl explained that reading about someone going through a situation similar to her own helped her understand and solve the issue in real-time. Is this why humans look in mirror or take pictures or record themselves speaking and moving? To experience something in the first person is indeed vastly different than observing in the third person.
We went on to pick up several items that caught our attention as being illuminating in some way. We found a posting for an HIV screening--illuminating in two ways: one to notify people of the event, the next to notify people of the conditions of their bodies. We picked up an engineer's discarded homework papers, some of which bore solutions, some of which merely confunding problems. Even though we couldn't solve these problems, exposure to the terms and the form/logic of the question was new enough to enrich our minds a bit more. We collected a "Wet Floor" janitor's sign, courtesy of Rubbermaid. This is an illumination some people might overlook; it is a visible signal of an invisible thing: water. Without the illuminating information this sign provides, one would slip in the puddle! Finally, we stumbled upon a fortune cookie fortune--how perfect! Illumination into the future--exactly what everyone is itching to find out.
Occasion A - Tea with Terri Sarris
Before Thanksgiving Break, I got together for coffee with Terri, a film professor of mine from freshman year, and an old classmate from the same course. That class has always held a special place in my heart (and I don't use this phrase often) because it allowed me my first in-depth exploration of film (a childhood Love) as an expressive medium. We chatted about the thing that most college students struggle a lot with, especially during sophomore year as the pressure is on to declare a major. I wanted to know what the life of an artist was like, since I had not grown up around any artists, and my family has always downplayed and even trivialized the place of art in one's life. I find separation from art quite impossible, nonetheless (a suitable place to quote: "Science is how we live, art is why."), but separation from the sciences equally impossible. I like to think that while science studies the evidence of life, art studies the process. These systems of approach are often concentric to me, and besides, why would I give up another way of processing Life when it offers me a richer view, prepares me better for the next step, if there is or isn't any? I enjoy my life more when I can operate in both systems, or even better, both at the same time. I love looking for instances to combine art and science, and one of the reasons why I love this class so much is because Professor Moss demonstrates how to integrate them ever so gracefully through her poams. Professor Sarris said something that was spot-on, I think, that science you can't logistically pursue on your own, but art you can always do "on the side." This gives me hope as a student of the sciences and the arts, especially when current society dictates that the fields be separated in order to maintain some sort of order. Maybe not enough people have demonstrated how to integrate effectively, but I think this is changing, with events like "Arts and Minds" popping up all over the place. Technology, I feel, is an important bridge between the two.
Occasion B - A Trip to Ruthvens Natural Science Museum and Planetarium
Rodica and I made a trip to the Natural Science Museum to check out the Planetarium show on Black Holes. I've always hungered for dark cosmic knowledge ever since I read Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time in high school. What a trip to head over to the other side of Matter! Unfortunately, that enlightenment was to be saved for another day, as so many families were in town for break that tickets were all sold out....
Not to be daunted, we bought tickets for a regular night-sky survey instead, and wandered the hallways of the museum (one of the places for illumination) while we waited for the show to start. Here are some of my encounters:
Awesome! I've had dreams about mammoths/mastodons, and never really knew the difference between the two, but this exhibit cleared it up for me cleanly. It was quite humbling to stand next to the massive skeletons (and plaster ones at that) of these creatures--from another world entirely--and wobble with emotion in socks that probably couldn't have covered one threatening incisor.
The evolution of underwater hearing mechanisms. Did you know underwater hearing adapted from dry land audition? In water were ye formed, and to water will ye return....
A shell large enough to hold Aphrodite herself! As I chuckled to Rodica (suppressing an involuntary shudder), boy would I have hated to sit in one of those things while the inhabitant was home....
I had a dream about this concept (using insects and other creepy crawlies to form some sort of visual pattern) about a week before seeing this presented at the museum. It's a creative idea--an organic mosaic, but a little chilling at the same time, not in the least because I had dreamed about it before.
A weasel! I used to beg my parents for a weasel every year because the song "Pop goes the weasel" tickled me to no end. Anyway, I had no idea weasels were this tiny, and it kind of creeped me out to imagine how fast a thing of this stature could move.
I've always been drawn to badgers, especially so after reading "Badger" by John Clare.
The expressive body placement of this bobcat snagged my eye. Its marble eyes lost none of the savage desire to escape its glass enclosure.
Of all things, a carnivorous puffball FUNGUS! Yes, fungi are vicious things that devour flesh. Or at least, this one is notorious for committing such human-esque acts. One wonders what secrets bloom beneath this deceptively serene white surface...inviting, like a pillow case....
Finally, I had to capture the sad eyes in this wolf. It really amazes me how much of the expression, the yearning of the animal is preserved even in synthetic eyes. Maybe I insert it myself, but it makes these exhibits all the more powerful. I connect with them on a knowledge-based level, and an emotional level that serves almost as a preservative for objective information.
And some isolated instances of luminescence/ossified moments of truth or, more often, questioning of certain truths (points on which I lacked resources to dwell upon!) that I was quick enough to pin onto paper:
- Is marriage at some point simply realizing that you're too committed to someone to back out? Does any "successful" endeavor in life demand such dogged commitment?
- What if my education thusfar has been merely miscomprehension?
- Illumination does not necessarily mean revelation
- Can art be maintained as a "luxury?"
- What exactly is the mechanism by which art changes people? By a mirror mechanism? By simply allowing an observer to feel a particular state again?
- The necessity of feeling--is it a weakness?
- Tethers shape identity; complete amnesiacs (no memory of past or potential memory for the future) must write constantly to compensate for lack of memory. Who are these people who retain all normal human function--feeling, thinking, acting, expressing--yet are on some level incomplete because they have no memory?
I'll start off with my in-class venture, the first exercise that drew my attention to the glimmers of luminescence that dotted my field of vision like rays of light fractured onto the sea.
Rodica and I traversed the hallways of the Dude, at first looking for people to share their stories of illumination. We found a couple of willing divulgers, most of whom shared stories of how a favorite book had sharpened their perceptive faculties. One girl explained that reading about someone going through a situation similar to her own helped her understand and solve the issue in real-time. Is this why humans look in mirror or take pictures or record themselves speaking and moving? To experience something in the first person is indeed vastly different than observing in the third person.
We went on to pick up several items that caught our attention as being illuminating in some way. We found a posting for an HIV screening--illuminating in two ways: one to notify people of the event, the next to notify people of the conditions of their bodies. We picked up an engineer's discarded homework papers, some of which bore solutions, some of which merely confunding problems. Even though we couldn't solve these problems, exposure to the terms and the form/logic of the question was new enough to enrich our minds a bit more. We collected a "Wet Floor" janitor's sign, courtesy of Rubbermaid. This is an illumination some people might overlook; it is a visible signal of an invisible thing: water. Without the illuminating information this sign provides, one would slip in the puddle! Finally, we stumbled upon a fortune cookie fortune--how perfect! Illumination into the future--exactly what everyone is itching to find out.
Occasion A - Tea with Terri Sarris
Before Thanksgiving Break, I got together for coffee with Terri, a film professor of mine from freshman year, and an old classmate from the same course. That class has always held a special place in my heart (and I don't use this phrase often) because it allowed me my first in-depth exploration of film (a childhood Love) as an expressive medium. We chatted about the thing that most college students struggle a lot with, especially during sophomore year as the pressure is on to declare a major. I wanted to know what the life of an artist was like, since I had not grown up around any artists, and my family has always downplayed and even trivialized the place of art in one's life. I find separation from art quite impossible, nonetheless (a suitable place to quote: "Science is how we live, art is why."), but separation from the sciences equally impossible. I like to think that while science studies the evidence of life, art studies the process. These systems of approach are often concentric to me, and besides, why would I give up another way of processing Life when it offers me a richer view, prepares me better for the next step, if there is or isn't any? I enjoy my life more when I can operate in both systems, or even better, both at the same time. I love looking for instances to combine art and science, and one of the reasons why I love this class so much is because Professor Moss demonstrates how to integrate them ever so gracefully through her poams. Professor Sarris said something that was spot-on, I think, that science you can't logistically pursue on your own, but art you can always do "on the side." This gives me hope as a student of the sciences and the arts, especially when current society dictates that the fields be separated in order to maintain some sort of order. Maybe not enough people have demonstrated how to integrate effectively, but I think this is changing, with events like "Arts and Minds" popping up all over the place. Technology, I feel, is an important bridge between the two.
Occasion B - A Trip to Ruthvens Natural Science Museum and Planetarium
Rodica and I made a trip to the Natural Science Museum to check out the Planetarium show on Black Holes. I've always hungered for dark cosmic knowledge ever since I read Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time in high school. What a trip to head over to the other side of Matter! Unfortunately, that enlightenment was to be saved for another day, as so many families were in town for break that tickets were all sold out....
Not to be daunted, we bought tickets for a regular night-sky survey instead, and wandered the hallways of the museum (one of the places for illumination) while we waited for the show to start. Here are some of my encounters:
Awesome! I've had dreams about mammoths/mastodons, and never really knew the difference between the two, but this exhibit cleared it up for me cleanly. It was quite humbling to stand next to the massive skeletons (and plaster ones at that) of these creatures--from another world entirely--and wobble with emotion in socks that probably couldn't have covered one threatening incisor.
The evolution of underwater hearing mechanisms. Did you know underwater hearing adapted from dry land audition? In water were ye formed, and to water will ye return....
A shell large enough to hold Aphrodite herself! As I chuckled to Rodica (suppressing an involuntary shudder), boy would I have hated to sit in one of those things while the inhabitant was home....
I had a dream about this concept (using insects and other creepy crawlies to form some sort of visual pattern) about a week before seeing this presented at the museum. It's a creative idea--an organic mosaic, but a little chilling at the same time, not in the least because I had dreamed about it before.
A weasel! I used to beg my parents for a weasel every year because the song "Pop goes the weasel" tickled me to no end. Anyway, I had no idea weasels were this tiny, and it kind of creeped me out to imagine how fast a thing of this stature could move.
I've always been drawn to badgers, especially so after reading "Badger" by John Clare.
The expressive body placement of this bobcat snagged my eye. Its marble eyes lost none of the savage desire to escape its glass enclosure.
Of all things, a carnivorous puffball FUNGUS! Yes, fungi are vicious things that devour flesh. Or at least, this one is notorious for committing such human-esque acts. One wonders what secrets bloom beneath this deceptively serene white surface...inviting, like a pillow case....
Finally, I had to capture the sad eyes in this wolf. It really amazes me how much of the expression, the yearning of the animal is preserved even in synthetic eyes. Maybe I insert it myself, but it makes these exhibits all the more powerful. I connect with them on a knowledge-based level, and an emotional level that serves almost as a preservative for objective information.
And some isolated instances of luminescence/ossified moments of truth or, more often, questioning of certain truths (points on which I lacked resources to dwell upon!) that I was quick enough to pin onto paper:
- Is marriage at some point simply realizing that you're too committed to someone to back out? Does any "successful" endeavor in life demand such dogged commitment?
- What if my education thusfar has been merely miscomprehension?
- Illumination does not necessarily mean revelation
- Can art be maintained as a "luxury?"
- What exactly is the mechanism by which art changes people? By a mirror mechanism? By simply allowing an observer to feel a particular state again?
- The necessity of feeling--is it a weakness?
- Tethers shape identity; complete amnesiacs (no memory of past or potential memory for the future) must write constantly to compensate for lack of memory. Who are these people who retain all normal human function--feeling, thinking, acting, expressing--yet are on some level incomplete because they have no memory?
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Gone Fishing by the teacupped tears
The frying/remapping of Bishop's "The Fish" presented an eye-opening and important exploration/demonstration of form, particularly how form pertains to modification of content (because all content has to be delivered in some body). To impose some form of order onto this entry, I'll start by addressing the questions raised in the English 240 Blog.
What do you notice about the form of this mapping?
It displays a consistency, a certain regularity in the appearance of certain words that contrasts with the murkier image presented through these words. This lends a haunting sort of quality to the piece, with words like tears and almanac, child and grandmother iterating at constant intervals; the rest of the poem (in between these iterations) seems to flesh out one possible interaction between the words, creating an atmosphere, an illusion that ascends to a place where interpretation of this interaction is possible.
The poem consists of seven stanzas, all but the last one consisting of six lines each. The last line of each stanza becomes the last word in the first line of its successor. Visually, it presents a boxy form, each line stacking on top of each other, each stanza building like blocks into a final poem. Each stanza, it seems, could also stand alone, revolving in its own orbit while also participating in a greater whole, also revolving around some axis (is this axis Bishop's intent? or perhaps reader-constructed?).
What, if anything appeals (to you) about the mapping of a poam as a sestina?
Sestinas have this mysterious quality to them; perhaps its because they visually represent what occurs so naturally in audition--echoing, a sound shadowing of sorts; they allow exploration of shadows in general. While reading Sestina, I couldn't dislodge the--indeed--shadowy image of the almanac fluttering like Death against some brackish brown wall from the back of my eyes and mind (and throat; was the poem a passage from that almanac?). Meaning--a complete body of meaning--is harder to derive because the shadows cast are so fascinatingly enticing in their movement, so distracting that I am tempted to play more with the visual possibilities evoked by such a form, than focus on the ideas built by the words. Perhaps this is what makes sestinas relatively "inaccessible," in that it doesn't appeal to the expected response pattern of the reader, but arouses another pathway less illuminated by words on the page.
What are your ideas about the (continued) purpose of such mapping?
As with any established form, there is no reason why it should be discarded/discontinued. It is a system of arranging interactions, perhaps not the one that maximizes interactions or even fosters optimal results (but what really is optimal? is there a way to say when no one knows the End?), but still another one of infinite systems that bring certain ways of seeing/knowing into light. It is good practice for a writer (or anyone looking to gain more fiber for thought) to attempt this particular blueprint and observe how the process of fleshing out changes their intention, or, if they begin intention-less, the mechanism by which it leads to intention. Perhaps one might attempt to translate a sestina into another dimension. Or perhaps the sestina is already a translation of something that already happens elsewhere--the recording of an observation that evolves into a receptacle itself.
How might you describe the relationship between map (form) and idea in Bishop's Sestina and in Bishop's The Fish (as published) and in one alternative mapping (either one of the provided remappings --here or here-- and/or a remapping that you make yourself).
Bishop's approach to both poems is visually simple, stately almost. It is as if she is directing the reader to focus on the words themselves, while also building a relatively accessible frame; the simplicity of diction and syntax allow the reader to form vivid visuals himself. It almost reads like a prose narrative, except for the line breaks that allow language to be a little more dramatic without sounding over-the-top or silly as they would in prose (too much drama for one line!). In poetry, however, this serves to heighten the impact of imagery and the resonance of the lines. The most notable feature of "Fish's" remapping (pdf version) is the dissolving of a certain solidity present in the original. The poem seems to be split down the middle almost, and the eye scanning from line to line will sometimes want to jump--incongruently. In this case, the eye is like the fish, collecting pieces of disjointed data. The rainbow encountered at the end of this version is breathless, disorienting.
Now for the cheat because I'm running out of gas (though I would love to let this ferment in its virgin state for a much longer period of time). Let me first say that I find the concept of the cheat quite stimulating--it reminds me of a Hart Crane quote I read once, "I have come to the stage now where I want to carefully choose my most congenial influences, and in a way, 'cultivate' their influence." I wonder if it is at all possible to have an original thought, and whether this matters or not. Interaction provides a much more fecund ground. It is interesting that one could control the repercussions of actions outside oneself just by directing oneself. This is powerful and limiting in a way, but offers another tether--and tethers are necessary to going anywhere in a gravitational field.
It is interesting that the cheat mentioned: " When poets write sestinas, they tend to put the word "sestina" in the titles. They want readers to realize the level of work and difficulty involved in writing the poem." This is one of the reasons we discussed in class, though it seems like a rather superficial one, especially since a later comment implies that it is important for readers not to be too aware that the poem is actually a sestina. We also discussed in class how Bishop might have named the piece sestina because she was really writing about a sestina (would explain all the references to prediction and repetition) and demonstrating the limitations of that form.
What do you notice about the form of this mapping?
It displays a consistency, a certain regularity in the appearance of certain words that contrasts with the murkier image presented through these words. This lends a haunting sort of quality to the piece, with words like tears and almanac, child and grandmother iterating at constant intervals; the rest of the poem (in between these iterations) seems to flesh out one possible interaction between the words, creating an atmosphere, an illusion that ascends to a place where interpretation of this interaction is possible.
The poem consists of seven stanzas, all but the last one consisting of six lines each. The last line of each stanza becomes the last word in the first line of its successor. Visually, it presents a boxy form, each line stacking on top of each other, each stanza building like blocks into a final poem. Each stanza, it seems, could also stand alone, revolving in its own orbit while also participating in a greater whole, also revolving around some axis (is this axis Bishop's intent? or perhaps reader-constructed?).
What, if anything appeals (to you) about the mapping of a poam as a sestina?
Sestinas have this mysterious quality to them; perhaps its because they visually represent what occurs so naturally in audition--echoing, a sound shadowing of sorts; they allow exploration of shadows in general. While reading Sestina, I couldn't dislodge the--indeed--shadowy image of the almanac fluttering like Death against some brackish brown wall from the back of my eyes and mind (and throat; was the poem a passage from that almanac?). Meaning--a complete body of meaning--is harder to derive because the shadows cast are so fascinatingly enticing in their movement, so distracting that I am tempted to play more with the visual possibilities evoked by such a form, than focus on the ideas built by the words. Perhaps this is what makes sestinas relatively "inaccessible," in that it doesn't appeal to the expected response pattern of the reader, but arouses another pathway less illuminated by words on the page.
What are your ideas about the (continued) purpose of such mapping?
As with any established form, there is no reason why it should be discarded/discontinued. It is a system of arranging interactions, perhaps not the one that maximizes interactions or even fosters optimal results (but what really is optimal? is there a way to say when no one knows the End?), but still another one of infinite systems that bring certain ways of seeing/knowing into light. It is good practice for a writer (or anyone looking to gain more fiber for thought) to attempt this particular blueprint and observe how the process of fleshing out changes their intention, or, if they begin intention-less, the mechanism by which it leads to intention. Perhaps one might attempt to translate a sestina into another dimension. Or perhaps the sestina is already a translation of something that already happens elsewhere--the recording of an observation that evolves into a receptacle itself.
How might you describe the relationship between map (form) and idea in Bishop's Sestina and in Bishop's The Fish (as published) and in one alternative mapping (either one of the provided remappings --here or here-- and/or a remapping that you make yourself).
Bishop's approach to both poems is visually simple, stately almost. It is as if she is directing the reader to focus on the words themselves, while also building a relatively accessible frame; the simplicity of diction and syntax allow the reader to form vivid visuals himself. It almost reads like a prose narrative, except for the line breaks that allow language to be a little more dramatic without sounding over-the-top or silly as they would in prose (too much drama for one line!). In poetry, however, this serves to heighten the impact of imagery and the resonance of the lines. The most notable feature of "Fish's" remapping (pdf version) is the dissolving of a certain solidity present in the original. The poem seems to be split down the middle almost, and the eye scanning from line to line will sometimes want to jump--incongruently. In this case, the eye is like the fish, collecting pieces of disjointed data. The rainbow encountered at the end of this version is breathless, disorienting.
Now for the cheat because I'm running out of gas (though I would love to let this ferment in its virgin state for a much longer period of time). Let me first say that I find the concept of the cheat quite stimulating--it reminds me of a Hart Crane quote I read once, "I have come to the stage now where I want to carefully choose my most congenial influences, and in a way, 'cultivate' their influence." I wonder if it is at all possible to have an original thought, and whether this matters or not. Interaction provides a much more fecund ground. It is interesting that one could control the repercussions of actions outside oneself just by directing oneself. This is powerful and limiting in a way, but offers another tether--and tethers are necessary to going anywhere in a gravitational field.
It is interesting that the cheat mentioned: " When poets write sestinas, they tend to put the word "sestina" in the titles. They want readers to realize the level of work and difficulty involved in writing the poem." This is one of the reasons we discussed in class, though it seems like a rather superficial one, especially since a later comment implies that it is important for readers not to be too aware that the poem is actually a sestina. We also discussed in class how Bishop might have named the piece sestina because she was really writing about a sestina (would explain all the references to prediction and repetition) and demonstrating the limitations of that form.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Maps abound!
The best way I can think of to describe the map-sharing that occurred in class is as ladder-interactions. When makers interact, do their ladders necessarily follow? I think so. When I'm exposed to another's take on mapping, even if its on a different poem, I shift to some degree (in some instances, more than others, due to case similarity, or if one ladder presents wider rungs or a plusher handrail :)) into another system of thought, another approach, before coming back to my mind; I am then not only able to, but must [updated insert - an instance of seduction: the ladders want to interact!] view my own work in a more holistic, for lack of a better word, light (from multiple angles; or maybe it is that my own work develops more facets, like a cut diamond, and I, the jeweler--the more faces, the more chances for illumination! [insert - and indeed, a shinier diamond presents a more seductive sight]).
The most striking map to me was a physical map of some city (ann arbor, maybe?) wrapped around a plate. This particular maker worked off of "The Lightning is a Yellow Fork." The idea of a plate and the fork as an eating utensil immediately comes to mind (yes, that makes sense), but more interestingly, this interaction raises the perspective of the plate as a medium for something other than eating food. The plate is a receptacle for forking, for travel; with the map wrapped around it, one's attention is diverted not to what it contains (as is usually the case when it holds food) but to its surface; it's like the skin of the receptacle has been translated into one language that can interact with other makers and systems. What does a plate say? Well, one of those things could be this map! I have no idea whether these thoughts align in any way with what the original maker had in mind, but this branching, this taking my own journey down that road map on her plate, is further evidence of ladders interacting with one (thought certainly more than one) another.
The most striking map to me was a physical map of some city (ann arbor, maybe?) wrapped around a plate. This particular maker worked off of "The Lightning is a Yellow Fork." The idea of a plate and the fork as an eating utensil immediately comes to mind (yes, that makes sense), but more interestingly, this interaction raises the perspective of the plate as a medium for something other than eating food. The plate is a receptacle for forking, for travel; with the map wrapped around it, one's attention is diverted not to what it contains (as is usually the case when it holds food) but to its surface; it's like the skin of the receptacle has been translated into one language that can interact with other makers and systems. What does a plate say? Well, one of those things could be this map! I have no idea whether these thoughts align in any way with what the original maker had in mind, but this branching, this taking my own journey down that road map on her plate, is further evidence of ladders interacting with one (thought certainly more than one) another.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Mapping Lightning, and other comments
I plan to work with the Lightning is a Yellow Fork for my mapping project. I originally wanted to make a website--a sort of hypertext maze of links (for what better place is there than Cyberspace to create this type of matrix?), through which I could explore the "blooming" effect of the poem and define certain branches of it. I'm not sure how feasible this idea is, because what I envision: a grand network of pages, each with an individual video, interactive game, animations, and other stimulating effects that would represent a venturing onto a particular branch, is far from what I can realistically create. My bank of web-design skills is meager. But my bank of video editing skills is slightly less in the red, so I think I'll pursue mapping through a video medium after all.
I want to first explore the literal meaning of the poem, and show something suggestive of figures dining up in heaven, a fork and other eating utensils tumbling down from the sky, images of lightning blending into the tines on a silver fork. I also want to relate the idea of lightning, electricity, and divinity to the brain. The lynch-pin would be the idea of existence. From a biological perspective, which may or may not be more reliable (but is certainly best supported by the limits of our sensing systems), everything we conceive is based on electricity, the impulses of sparks, quarks. I can't help but bind the light in the sky to the light that forks through the human brain, both elementally identical, both a signal, a glimpse into the secrets of existence and the way things operate--from the macroscopic (the Universe) to the microscopic (the Brain or Mind).
Here is what a mapping of my current mental map of a poem (a mapping of an idea in another's mind itself) looks like:
I want to first explore the literal meaning of the poem, and show something suggestive of figures dining up in heaven, a fork and other eating utensils tumbling down from the sky, images of lightning blending into the tines on a silver fork. I also want to relate the idea of lightning, electricity, and divinity to the brain. The lynch-pin would be the idea of existence. From a biological perspective, which may or may not be more reliable (but is certainly best supported by the limits of our sensing systems), everything we conceive is based on electricity, the impulses of sparks, quarks. I can't help but bind the light in the sky to the light that forks through the human brain, both elementally identical, both a signal, a glimpse into the secrets of existence and the way things operate--from the macroscopic (the Universe) to the microscopic (the Brain or Mind).
Here is what a mapping of my current mental map of a poem (a mapping of an idea in another's mind itself) looks like:
Anne Stevenson on Art
I recently attended a "Lunch with Honors" session with poet and UM alumna Anne Stevenson. I found the talk pertinent to what we had discussed in class earlier that week (Ezra Pound's poetic principles), particularly as she listed her own three principles of poetic creation (presumably inherited from Elizabeth Bishop): accuracy, spontaneity, and mystery. For comparison, Pound's three principles, as stated in his essay, were: direct treatment of the subject/object, to use no unnecessary word (is this the same thing as conciseness? doesn't one lose something by being too concise?), and to compose in the sequence of the musical phrase (i suppose this means to treat poetry as music, to make the words come alive in all dimensions, starting with acoustics). I thought Stevenson's principles were frankly easier to understand (perhaps that was because she was there to explain it in person), even though some of them coincided with Pound's. They both seem to stress the value of knowing exactly what it is that one is writing about ("accuracy" and "direct treatment") and to present it in an honest fashion; does this also agree with Pound's statement that no word should be superfluous--for if one is addressing a specific subject, would dressing it up in unnecessary words be an act of dishonesty? Would it be kind of analogous to (modern day) rap music--its value found solely in phonetic flow, and lacking substance? Is music enough to count as substance in poetry? Does it really matter what the words are saying as long as they invoke some visceral response? Is that the final goal of art? Or is it useless unless it's cognitively provocative? I found the last of Stevenson's principles to be vague and a bit troubling: "mystery." A poem must not be too explicit, else it grow incestuously obvious to the reader, was what I gleaned from her statement. Isn't this irresponsible, to purposefully try to veil your work from the audience's understanding? But I also do agree that poems lose much of their beauty and power when they become too obvious. Does Pound's insistence on conciseness also entail obviousness? No, because as long as the writer knows what he or she is doing with each word, the construction of the poem is still purposeful and unoccluded by mere distractions, figures placed here and there for reasons not even understood by the author himself. And another one of Stevenson's principles also contrasts with Pound's (or what I understand to be Pound's) doctrine; she values spontaneity in her poetry. While this does impart a freshness to the work, is it really at its best stage after you first work through it? I guess Kerouac took it to the extreme when he refused to give any of his poems a second glance, published them all as they were right after conception. While that does offer an invaluable snapshot into his creative process, sometimes work needs to be revised over and over again (like the mapping project for this class) as more material accumulates in the brain. Stevenson also stated in her talk that "poetry is not logic. Above all, it is about emotions." I used to use visceral tension as a gauge for the quality of a poem, but I've begun to reprocess that thought; isn't it a little cheap to ride on emotion alone? A little too easy? Sure, the transcription, time-encapsulation of emotion is extraordinarily resonant, but I keep feeling like there is something else...Harold Bloom writes in his essay, "The Art of Reading Poetry," that the highest form of poetry should invoke a sense of "strangess" of being. Provocation. Innovation. These take a large reservoir of creative resources to remain faithful to. Is it really true that if you have nothing new to say, you shouldn't say it at all?
She also brought up another interesting topic that relates in a way to the artist's duty (what is it, exactly?). She discussed the state of modern poetry and its movement away from traditional forms into more and more formless products, and perhaps consequently more and more nebulous products that fail in large part to capture either music or meaning. Writing can serve as therapy for the writer, but though these pieces can sometimes resonate on a short wavelength, true art serves as therapy itself, resonating, dislodging, breaking apart something in the brain stem or soul, allowing for regeneration, re-creation, and blooming.
She also brought up another interesting topic that relates in a way to the artist's duty (what is it, exactly?). She discussed the state of modern poetry and its movement away from traditional forms into more and more formless products, and perhaps consequently more and more nebulous products that fail in large part to capture either music or meaning. Writing can serve as therapy for the writer, but though these pieces can sometimes resonate on a short wavelength, true art serves as therapy itself, resonating, dislodging, breaking apart something in the brain stem or soul, allowing for regeneration, re-creation, and blooming.
Monday, October 1, 2007
Collections
In the first statement of your interview with Silken, you remarked on the necessity of collecting to creation. This reminded me of something Harold Bloom wrote in his essay, “The Art of Reading Poetry,” that the first step in the appreciation of a poetic piece is to commit it to memory—to know at least on a sensory or aesthetic level the bends and inflections (the sulci and gyri) of its acoustics, the way the words fall upon the page, the texture of its particular patterns, and the reactions, visceral, cerebral, and otherwise, this body of information invokes in you. The body itself is in fact a collection that becomes amalgamated into the matrix of the mind. From there, the poem becomes a recollection, absorbed into recollections of other poems, experiences, thoughts: something quite alive, and evolving as the database is updated. The poem is essentially digested and emerges through an anabolic process something more fully incorporated into, perhaps even providing sustenance for your own system. For example, I commit Hart Crane’s “Voyages II” to memory. This is one way of knowing the poem: though I do not know it on a cerebral level yet (perhaps my reasoning faculties are not developed well enough, the semantic background of my education not broad enough either, my life experience limited), I can come to some understanding of it just by folding it into my memory and allowing it to distort the plane, the matrices of my mind. The poem is then ripe for fermentation, my memory a cellar. I can reach for it, uncork it, and rebottle it with new information/collections, leave it to set again. This rather obscure correlation seems incoherent on a purely logical level, but makes sense, at least to me, in an intuitive sense. Moving forward to the question of what “tethers” the concept of/word “collection” activates for me: collection and memory are necessarily bound to one another, for memory is a collection, and collections must be remembered in order to have any significance. I’m sometimes ignorant of direct sensory perceptions and the physical world in general (a grade of myopia, in a way), so that what I recall is not the sensation itself but the reactions it provokes—usually a particular aura or feeling, or if it is indeed sensory, a smell. Collections of olfactory sensations bear the strongest associative ties to other recollections, such as places, people, or a certain time.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Metaphor
The comparison of metaphor with a wormhole is interesting and quite striking, particularly as this comparison itself links two seemingly disparate fields...that of language/expression and that of science. However, it is true that everything within human understanding must be contained within the realm of literary expression. So in fact, language itself is the thread that binds human consciouness. Back to the direct consideration of metaphor...perhaps its most useful purpose, in practical terms, is to simplify a concept, or prime it for more holistic comprehension by linking it with, as Professor Moss noted, something more familiar. For example, in daily use, one may notice an especially putrid and foreign smell, but having never experienced the odor before, must relate the current sensation, and more importantly, its interpretation to preestablished molds of meaning; one might say, "inhaling such an odor is like getting bruised in the nose," or "it smells like maggoty fish in the garage on a hot summer day." Since everyone has experienced bruises, and probably smelled rotting fish, such comparisons allow the speaker a taxonomy, provide a matrix in which the experience may be recorded, remembered, and later retrieved and built upon again in relation to another novel experience, creating a chain, or perhaps chains within chains (links within links) of images and meaning.
in addressing the question, can metaphor be reversed, logic and syllogism immediately come to mind. if p is q, then conversely, is p also q? in logic, this is not necessarily true, but when p and q stand for literal figures instead of mathematical ones, the comparison can be nonetheless interesting and maybe even provocative. How about inverting a metaphor? If p is q, then not p is not q. This is like looking at the space outside the system or matrix set up by a metaphor--the negative space? Perhaps this is another bigger metaphor outside of the established one.... Indeed, when a metaphor is created, the number of connections and "bubbling" potential within it is nearly limitless, like Anno's Mysterious Multiplying Jar. Addressing the question raised in class today, the jar doesn't explode because the seeds of bubbles are infinitesimal. They might not even really be there...kind of like in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory when Charlie sees his grandparents before they were born floating in negative space. These unborn or rather untapped seedlings of ideas, bubbles lie in a negative space (a black hole?) until someONE sees it or somehow senses it and so makes the seed come to life--makes it branch and blossom like a fractal flower. One person cannot possibly identify all the bubble seeds, so the figurative jar may stay intact.
in addressing the question, can metaphor be reversed, logic and syllogism immediately come to mind. if p is q, then conversely, is p also q? in logic, this is not necessarily true, but when p and q stand for literal figures instead of mathematical ones, the comparison can be nonetheless interesting and maybe even provocative. How about inverting a metaphor? If p is q, then not p is not q. This is like looking at the space outside the system or matrix set up by a metaphor--the negative space? Perhaps this is another bigger metaphor outside of the established one.... Indeed, when a metaphor is created, the number of connections and "bubbling" potential within it is nearly limitless, like Anno's Mysterious Multiplying Jar. Addressing the question raised in class today, the jar doesn't explode because the seeds of bubbles are infinitesimal. They might not even really be there...kind of like in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory when Charlie sees his grandparents before they were born floating in negative space. These unborn or rather untapped seedlings of ideas, bubbles lie in a negative space (a black hole?) until someONE sees it or somehow senses it and so makes the seed come to life--makes it branch and blossom like a fractal flower. One person cannot possibly identify all the bubble seeds, so the figurative jar may stay intact.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Pattern ID
Identity two non-written human language and/or non-spoken human language paaterns, and explain/demonstrate how these patterns might become (forms of) templates for written and/or spoken human language expression. You may demonstrate how these patterns form (or contribute to) an existing poetic form, or you may demonstrate how the patterns you identify might contribute to am orginal poetic form. // Please post, in your course-related blog, the identified patterns and the form(s) to which the identified patterns contribute.
The first non-written/spoken language that comes to mind is perhaps not commonly perceived as a language: music. Although music can certainly be written using its own notation system, its power to move and express lies in acoustics; its physical transcription serves solely as a memory/communication tool. The language of music conveys a dimension distinct from and deeper than “ordinary” language, such as English, Arabic, or Chinese, is able to. All music, from Mozart’s sweeping symphonies to Justin Timberlake’s “Sexyback,” (pardon the coarse-mannered comparison) can already be considered poetic forms in themselves. Slam and spoken word poetry find one way to incorporate some unique elements of music into the standard English poetic form. Words are arranged in rhythms more often utilized in music than in ordinary speech, and to reinforce the primary role of this cadence (and to use it as a catalyst for further expression), such poetry is usually performed (Example Clip). Even on a page, slam poetry has a distinct look and syntax: long sentences hurtle along with internal rhyme to create a sense of visceral momentum.
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