My interest in astronomy was awakened when I was 16 years old. Through a recommendation from an older classmate, I went to the Thacher SSP program.
The class size was 36 and we were all housed together in a mountain campus for six weeks. This sequestration made us all very close. Many couples formed among the co-ed group and strong friendships were forged. One friend of mine, made that summer, lives in Germany now where he works for the Max Planck Institut. Another works as a cryptographer here in the Bay Area.
Besides lectures and other activities, our main project was to observe a particular celestial object and spend the summer tracking it across the sky and calculating its orbital components. We were broken up into teams of 3 students and assigned to track the orbit of some celestial body - we were lucky to get the comet Giacobini-Zinner which was then streaming through the solar system.
We used an old telescope that demanded heavy involvement from us. It had no tracking mechanism so 'tracking' consisted of one of us staring into a small guidescope for up to an hour, picking a tracking star, and keeping the telescope focused on it by making fine adjustments to where the telescope was pointing. It was hard work but the end result is that we had helped to make new observations which we collated with other "real" astronomers across the globe.
The experience transformed me, it drew me in deeply. I still remember all of it, the luminescent stars, the fleeing little comet and us three kids in a small observatory, bleary-eyed and bathed in infrared light.
Friday, May 02, 2003
Poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
I owe the discovery of Uqbar to the conjunction of a mirror and an encyclopedia.
Jorge Luis Borges
The practice mirror is to be used for the correction of faults, not for a love affair, and the figure you watch should not become your dearest friend.
Agnes De Mille
Our inventions mirror our secret wishes.
Lawrence Durrell
Percy Bysshe Shelley
I owe the discovery of Uqbar to the conjunction of a mirror and an encyclopedia.
Jorge Luis Borges
The practice mirror is to be used for the correction of faults, not for a love affair, and the figure you watch should not become your dearest friend.
Agnes De Mille
Our inventions mirror our secret wishes.
Lawrence Durrell
Thursday, May 01, 2003
Most summers as a child, my family would make its way down to my grandmothers house in Mexico.
The house was not what it once was. Before my grandfather died, they had had not only pigs and chickens but also cows and a small stable of horses. My grandmother, to make ends meet, had sold off most of the livestock and even sold off tracts of land.
Nevertheless, the now small house still had its charms for me. In Mexico, many houses are built around a central patio. The patio is open to the elements and is surrounded by covered corridors. The rooms of the house are off of these corridors, surrounding the patio. When it rains, for example, the safest way to get from room to room is of course to walk around the central courtyard. But, the best and fastest way, certainly for a small child, is to run madly through the rain.
My mother would pass the summers cooking and gossiping with neighbors. All the people in the small village would walk from house to house to stop and chat, moving almost synchronously, like some large coordinated dance. Children, including my brother and I, would hop around like cats, climbing random fixtures, sitting at first quietly and then making sudden, unexpected dashes, playing with slingshots and soccerballs, whatever we could find.
My father would spend most of his days sitting in the sun listening to old records, Beethoven, Mexican mariachi, Benny Goodman, even Chuck Berry. He would invite over his own friends, other men, and together they would concoct some new liquor, usually a mixture of tequila and the juice of an exotic fruit.
My father also often had some project, or perhaps better said, some crazy idea that occupied him wholly throughout the summer. In these schemes, he would recruit us kids since we were cheap labor and were always game for something new.
One summer he declared to us kids that after some initial investigations of his own, he had come to the conclusion that there was hidden treasure somewhere in the walls of my grandmothers house.
There were old stories and rumors, he explained, that sometime during the Mexican Revolution, my grandmothers house had hosted a small cadre of bandits (for some reason the word bandit always summons up for me a picture of an unshaved man with an eyepatch) and that the bandits had arrived with stolen treasures. Apparently they had left the house to go one some new raid but then never returned, presumably either captured or had a bad run-in with other bandits. In any case, my father concluded, the treasure must still be inside the house.
And so it began. My father was our commanding general. We were his dutiful lieutenants. He had made a rough sketch of the house and pointed out to us where he believed the treasure might be hidden. Our first task he explained was to scout out likely hiding places. He showed us how we should knock on walls and listen for the sort of non-thud sound that would betray the presence of a hollow.
In retrospect, I do wonder why my mother showed no reaction to having a small army of neighborhood kids stalking through rooms, knocking on walls, crouching in corners. She must have dismissed these antics as the impenetrable games of children.
The next phase arrived rather quickly. My most vivid memory is of my brother telling me excitedly that something had been found and that even now my father was out back excavating it. I ran out behind the house and discovered my father kneeling on the muddy ground with his hands reaching into some hollow he had dug up. I've found it! There's a metal box buried in the walls!, he turned to me and said in triumph and then returned to his work.
My father did indeed make a find but it was less than he expected. The metal box was an old ammunition container and inside the box was no treasure, it was nothing but paper - old receipts, tax documents, scribbles. This box more likely held the secrets of an old tax dodger than of a pirate. Still, my father diligently studied all the papers, hoping some new mystery, perhaps a battered treasure map would be revealed.
It was in the following days that the women of the house, to their horror, discovered my father's excavations. They were outraged that he had been digging small holes in my grandmothers house, all for what they considered a childish game. My father, under their stark glare, made a sheepish confession.
It was hard not to feel pity for my father and, at first, we did help him to undo his destruction. But my mother, in a fit of vengeance, deemed that my father would have no help. That it was his idea, not ours and so it was his burden.
I wouldn't say my brother and I were happy to be characterized as unwilling pawns. But, if it meant we got to run off and play while my father plastered walls, then so be it. The rest of that summer was fairly miserable for my father although some of his elder friends did come to help him, mixing strange tequila drinks with him and listening to old records as they leisurely rebuilt my grandmothers house.
The house was not what it once was. Before my grandfather died, they had had not only pigs and chickens but also cows and a small stable of horses. My grandmother, to make ends meet, had sold off most of the livestock and even sold off tracts of land.
Nevertheless, the now small house still had its charms for me. In Mexico, many houses are built around a central patio. The patio is open to the elements and is surrounded by covered corridors. The rooms of the house are off of these corridors, surrounding the patio. When it rains, for example, the safest way to get from room to room is of course to walk around the central courtyard. But, the best and fastest way, certainly for a small child, is to run madly through the rain.
My mother would pass the summers cooking and gossiping with neighbors. All the people in the small village would walk from house to house to stop and chat, moving almost synchronously, like some large coordinated dance. Children, including my brother and I, would hop around like cats, climbing random fixtures, sitting at first quietly and then making sudden, unexpected dashes, playing with slingshots and soccerballs, whatever we could find.
My father would spend most of his days sitting in the sun listening to old records, Beethoven, Mexican mariachi, Benny Goodman, even Chuck Berry. He would invite over his own friends, other men, and together they would concoct some new liquor, usually a mixture of tequila and the juice of an exotic fruit.
My father also often had some project, or perhaps better said, some crazy idea that occupied him wholly throughout the summer. In these schemes, he would recruit us kids since we were cheap labor and were always game for something new.
One summer he declared to us kids that after some initial investigations of his own, he had come to the conclusion that there was hidden treasure somewhere in the walls of my grandmothers house.
There were old stories and rumors, he explained, that sometime during the Mexican Revolution, my grandmothers house had hosted a small cadre of bandits (for some reason the word bandit always summons up for me a picture of an unshaved man with an eyepatch) and that the bandits had arrived with stolen treasures. Apparently they had left the house to go one some new raid but then never returned, presumably either captured or had a bad run-in with other bandits. In any case, my father concluded, the treasure must still be inside the house.
And so it began. My father was our commanding general. We were his dutiful lieutenants. He had made a rough sketch of the house and pointed out to us where he believed the treasure might be hidden. Our first task he explained was to scout out likely hiding places. He showed us how we should knock on walls and listen for the sort of non-thud sound that would betray the presence of a hollow.
In retrospect, I do wonder why my mother showed no reaction to having a small army of neighborhood kids stalking through rooms, knocking on walls, crouching in corners. She must have dismissed these antics as the impenetrable games of children.
The next phase arrived rather quickly. My most vivid memory is of my brother telling me excitedly that something had been found and that even now my father was out back excavating it. I ran out behind the house and discovered my father kneeling on the muddy ground with his hands reaching into some hollow he had dug up. I've found it! There's a metal box buried in the walls!, he turned to me and said in triumph and then returned to his work.
My father did indeed make a find but it was less than he expected. The metal box was an old ammunition container and inside the box was no treasure, it was nothing but paper - old receipts, tax documents, scribbles. This box more likely held the secrets of an old tax dodger than of a pirate. Still, my father diligently studied all the papers, hoping some new mystery, perhaps a battered treasure map would be revealed.
It was in the following days that the women of the house, to their horror, discovered my father's excavations. They were outraged that he had been digging small holes in my grandmothers house, all for what they considered a childish game. My father, under their stark glare, made a sheepish confession.
It was hard not to feel pity for my father and, at first, we did help him to undo his destruction. But my mother, in a fit of vengeance, deemed that my father would have no help. That it was his idea, not ours and so it was his burden.
I wouldn't say my brother and I were happy to be characterized as unwilling pawns. But, if it meant we got to run off and play while my father plastered walls, then so be it. The rest of that summer was fairly miserable for my father although some of his elder friends did come to help him, mixing strange tequila drinks with him and listening to old records as they leisurely rebuilt my grandmothers house.
Monday, April 28, 2003
I was recently reminded of this post I once made on Metafilter. Don't miss the excerpted correspondence with Fender Tucker near the end of the thread.
I learned of Keeler through the website of Richard Sala. And I learned of Sala because i stumbled upon a book of his, hidden in some stacks at a used bookstore.
The book was the Chuckling Whatsit, a strange and riveting tale about a mysterious and powerful totem. The story is dark and Victorian and Sala manages to tread on that fine line that joins the humorous and the macabre - not too unlike Edward Gorey. The plot involves secret societies, ancient mysteries and convoluted sub-plots all woven together with a dark sense of humor.
It is not odd then that Sala's website provides one of the few links to Keeler on the web. The Keeler society is itself a sort of secret cult, hinted at by writers such as Neil Gaiman and William Poundstone.
Friday, April 25, 2003
notes
-She walked in like royalty. We loped around her, covering our faces.
-Symmetry exists because of imperfections. The mirror gives itself away because of subtle reflections. Otherwise it would be a habitable space. Time forward is not the same as time backward. No matter how abstract the mirror, it always has a fault.
-Denouement is underrated. Too often the fall from climax is so abrupt as to make our stomachs turn. Listen: The man has stopped singing. The chorus now chimes in, cradles us in their voices, softly lays us down.
-Truth is like an explored landscape. Unreachable truths are like far-away lands that we can only point to and wave our arms. We clamber back and forth; metaphor and analogy are our only crude tools. But what if the tools we need have not been imagined? (A is like B presumes B)
-Our world is manufactured by our community, our friends. It is a universe of consensus. As we jump to different circles we re-discover the proliferation of worlds.
-Our arguments follow the same pattern. The rules of rhetoric were discovered long ago. Often we willfully delude ourselves that we are making progress. To think otherwise is unbearable.
-We are storytellers. Our life, when drawn for others, has the straightforward drama of a classic narrative. The text has been cleaned of the ugly and the inscrutable. But have we left out the most important parts?
-We are so anxious to create meaning out of patterns that we create them out of nothing. An unrelated sequence of events becomes a cataclysm. Two insults in a row become our downfall. One unsolicited kiss becomes our salvation.
-She walked in like royalty. We loped around her, covering our faces.
-Symmetry exists because of imperfections. The mirror gives itself away because of subtle reflections. Otherwise it would be a habitable space. Time forward is not the same as time backward. No matter how abstract the mirror, it always has a fault.
-Denouement is underrated. Too often the fall from climax is so abrupt as to make our stomachs turn. Listen: The man has stopped singing. The chorus now chimes in, cradles us in their voices, softly lays us down.
-Truth is like an explored landscape. Unreachable truths are like far-away lands that we can only point to and wave our arms. We clamber back and forth; metaphor and analogy are our only crude tools. But what if the tools we need have not been imagined? (A is like B presumes B)
-Our world is manufactured by our community, our friends. It is a universe of consensus. As we jump to different circles we re-discover the proliferation of worlds.
-Our arguments follow the same pattern. The rules of rhetoric were discovered long ago. Often we willfully delude ourselves that we are making progress. To think otherwise is unbearable.
-We are storytellers. Our life, when drawn for others, has the straightforward drama of a classic narrative. The text has been cleaned of the ugly and the inscrutable. But have we left out the most important parts?
-We are so anxious to create meaning out of patterns that we create them out of nothing. An unrelated sequence of events becomes a cataclysm. Two insults in a row become our downfall. One unsolicited kiss becomes our salvation.
Monday, April 21, 2003
since i was a child, i have always been covetous of images. i always felt there was never enough time to really "see" and experience everything around me. i craved the possession of images past and present, and the creation of my own personal dreams, symbols, and future.
i started taking pictures to remember -- documenting and recording images i could not trust my mind to hold completely and accurately. but over time, i realized that through images, i could not only capture moments of significance, but also moments of beauty, that in themselves had worth in the vicarious experience of their viewing. in addition, by capturing those small moments of beauty all around us, and by focusing and re-experiencing that beauty, i possessed another tool to determine my own mood and consciousness.
This is the introduction to my friend Paul's fantastic Asia project. Paul got his start in the world of New York fashion photography. As his roommate in Manhattan, I used to watch for him on TV's Fashion File, sometimes catching glimpses of him at the end of the runway, taking pictures of Naomi Campbell or other models who strolled in front of his lens.
Now Paul, an amazing photographer who has studied with Mary Ellen Mark, turns his camera to Asia. The sequences of images are a gorgeous visual narrative, like a wordless novel.
Sunday, April 20, 2003
Speaking of the private, I have been reading ostinato, which is neither poetry nor prose, but rather a biography written in the language of emotions. Reading it, I become hyper aware of my own emotions - the sensation and images that make them up. And how interesting and disappointing that so many of his emotions are about sex and pain and the small deaths we suffer as we live. I'd like to think there was more. Love for instance. But, Love is primarily a selfish emotion.
So writes my friend and she is right; for the thought raises in me the larger question of how we can escape the old philosopher's conundrum of reducing all actions and emotions to mere solipsism. The "other" it seems in the best case can be much more than a reflection of ourselves or a pool into which we cast our wishes and dreams. They can also be an expansive gateway, a secret door, which when unlocked can seem to open up a wider world.
The reflection of ourselves, unlike a simple mirror, always brings something back with it, an alien cargo, which makes this more substantial than an illusion, much more real and substantial than a hall of mirrors.
So writes my friend and she is right; for the thought raises in me the larger question of how we can escape the old philosopher's conundrum of reducing all actions and emotions to mere solipsism. The "other" it seems in the best case can be much more than a reflection of ourselves or a pool into which we cast our wishes and dreams. They can also be an expansive gateway, a secret door, which when unlocked can seem to open up a wider world.
The reflection of ourselves, unlike a simple mirror, always brings something back with it, an alien cargo, which makes this more substantial than an illusion, much more real and substantial than a hall of mirrors.
Wednesday, April 16, 2003
Alexandria, a city at once sacred and profane; between Theocritus, Plotinus, and the Septagint one moves on intermediate levels which are those of race as much as anything - like saying Copt, Greek and Jew or Moslem, Turk and Armenian... Am I wrong? These are the slow accretions of time itself on place. Just as life on the individual face lays down, wash by successive wash, the wrinkles of experiences in which laughter and tears are utterly indistinguable. Warm casts of experience on the sands of life...' So writes my friend, and he is right; for the Interlinear now raises for me much more than the problem of objective 'truth to life', or if you like 'to fiction'. It raises, as life itself does - whether one make or takes it - the harder-grained question of form. How then am I to manipulate this mass of crystalized data in order to work out the meaning of it and so give a coherent picture of this impossible city of love and obscenity?
-from Lawrence Durrell's Balthazar
-from Lawrence Durrell's Balthazar
Tuesday, April 15, 2003
jury duty
My jury service ended today. Overall, I feel that i did my small part at combatting injustice.
The accused men were two black men both of whom attended a large party at a well-known bar here in San Francisco. The more serious of the accusations (six counts in all among the two men) were that these two men had committed battery against san franciso police officers, that they had resisted arrest and provoked violence.
I like to believe that I have a fair and open mind about these things. Most of my direct experience with the police, with law enforcement, has been through my younger brother, a tattooed rebel who has served jail time here and there. I know, from him, that at times he has been treated unfairly, been the subject of quick accusations and, for many police officers fits the profile, both in his looks and demeanor of a 'usual suspect.' But, I also know that he can be a bit of a scoundrel sometimes, that much of the jailtime he has served has been, from our family's perspective, well-deserved.
The case I just heard lasted about a week and we deliberated for about eight hours total before coming to a unanimous decision. The first jury poll showed that we were unequally divided with the slight majority of us weighing in with a 'not guilty' verdict. Others were undecided and a few were convinced of the defendant's guilt.
I was surprised at how civil, fair and open-minded my fellow jurors were. Maybe I had watched too much tv an expected it to be contentious. But, we heard each other out, carefully reviewed everyone's notes, went over the details of the testimony both from the defense and the prosecution witnesses. As we discussed the details among ourselves, more and more inconsistencies emerged, across all testimonies.
I know from my readings and from having known a defense attorney very well that witnesses can be unreliable. Our memories are fallible and selective. When judging someone's recollection of an event, you have to also take this into account and not assume that direct contradictions in testimony necessarily assume that a witness has willfully lied. In some case, we actually found the opposite to be true, that some independent testimonies were -so- similar as to arouse our suspicions.
Those of us who argued for 'not guilty' relied on a couple tactics. The first was to remind our fellow jurors (and ourselves) of the distinction between 'not guilty' and 'innocent'. It seemed clear to me and to others that a lot of misconduct had probably occurred on both sides that night. But, our role here was not play impartial judge and award guilt or innocence. Our very narrow role was to determine whether the prosecution had presented us with enough compelling evidence to determine whether -these- specific defendants could be convicted of -these- specific charges. Its an important distinction.
The second tactic among all the jurors was to look at credibility. It was generally agreed upon that both sides (prosecution and defense) had deep flaws in their case. Despite the small errors of memory, there was gaping holes in the prosecutions case that were enough to make me (and many of us) uncomfortable that two men could be convicted on this basis. Or, to put it more personally, that you or I could be convicted on nothing more than this. It was not a matter of pointing out that police can be untruthful (they can) but, in our case, merely pointing out that police can be human, and like all us humans, flawed.
After eight hours of talk, of the discussion of the finer points of the case, we slowly came to agreement. Each of our fellow jurors felt inclined to agree, if they had not done so earlier, that they could not uphold an abiding conviction in this case, that they could not walk away and feel, say a month later, that they had made the right choice in voting for a conviction.
We all voted Not Guilty on all six counts.
I should add here that one mistake made by the prosecution (and to a lesser extent by the defense) was to underestimate the intelligence of us 12. In many cases it was clear that loaded words were being used to try to sway our view of events, strong words that should not have been used. If such introduced prejudices are not supported by the testimony of your witnesses, they are likely to backfire, causing the jury to more cleanly pick apart your case, looking for other signs that they have been manipulated and, ultimately (and this is a prosecutor's nightmare) casting doubt on your entire presentation.
My jury service ended today. Overall, I feel that i did my small part at combatting injustice.
The accused men were two black men both of whom attended a large party at a well-known bar here in San Francisco. The more serious of the accusations (six counts in all among the two men) were that these two men had committed battery against san franciso police officers, that they had resisted arrest and provoked violence.
I like to believe that I have a fair and open mind about these things. Most of my direct experience with the police, with law enforcement, has been through my younger brother, a tattooed rebel who has served jail time here and there. I know, from him, that at times he has been treated unfairly, been the subject of quick accusations and, for many police officers fits the profile, both in his looks and demeanor of a 'usual suspect.' But, I also know that he can be a bit of a scoundrel sometimes, that much of the jailtime he has served has been, from our family's perspective, well-deserved.
The case I just heard lasted about a week and we deliberated for about eight hours total before coming to a unanimous decision. The first jury poll showed that we were unequally divided with the slight majority of us weighing in with a 'not guilty' verdict. Others were undecided and a few were convinced of the defendant's guilt.
I was surprised at how civil, fair and open-minded my fellow jurors were. Maybe I had watched too much tv an expected it to be contentious. But, we heard each other out, carefully reviewed everyone's notes, went over the details of the testimony both from the defense and the prosecution witnesses. As we discussed the details among ourselves, more and more inconsistencies emerged, across all testimonies.
I know from my readings and from having known a defense attorney very well that witnesses can be unreliable. Our memories are fallible and selective. When judging someone's recollection of an event, you have to also take this into account and not assume that direct contradictions in testimony necessarily assume that a witness has willfully lied. In some case, we actually found the opposite to be true, that some independent testimonies were -so- similar as to arouse our suspicions.
Those of us who argued for 'not guilty' relied on a couple tactics. The first was to remind our fellow jurors (and ourselves) of the distinction between 'not guilty' and 'innocent'. It seemed clear to me and to others that a lot of misconduct had probably occurred on both sides that night. But, our role here was not play impartial judge and award guilt or innocence. Our very narrow role was to determine whether the prosecution had presented us with enough compelling evidence to determine whether -these- specific defendants could be convicted of -these- specific charges. Its an important distinction.
The second tactic among all the jurors was to look at credibility. It was generally agreed upon that both sides (prosecution and defense) had deep flaws in their case. Despite the small errors of memory, there was gaping holes in the prosecutions case that were enough to make me (and many of us) uncomfortable that two men could be convicted on this basis. Or, to put it more personally, that you or I could be convicted on nothing more than this. It was not a matter of pointing out that police can be untruthful (they can) but, in our case, merely pointing out that police can be human, and like all us humans, flawed.
After eight hours of talk, of the discussion of the finer points of the case, we slowly came to agreement. Each of our fellow jurors felt inclined to agree, if they had not done so earlier, that they could not uphold an abiding conviction in this case, that they could not walk away and feel, say a month later, that they had made the right choice in voting for a conviction.
We all voted Not Guilty on all six counts.
I should add here that one mistake made by the prosecution (and to a lesser extent by the defense) was to underestimate the intelligence of us 12. In many cases it was clear that loaded words were being used to try to sway our view of events, strong words that should not have been used. If such introduced prejudices are not supported by the testimony of your witnesses, they are likely to backfire, causing the jury to more cleanly pick apart your case, looking for other signs that they have been manipulated and, ultimately (and this is a prosecutor's nightmare) casting doubt on your entire presentation.
Sunday, April 13, 2003
Starkeffect's too cute Think of Me from the new Metafilter Music site.
Read more about mic in track, to see where these sound samples are from.
Read more about mic in track, to see where these sound samples are from.
This is the right moment to be here. Poised between two imperfect moments. Conversations at the bar, the dj plays latin jazz and salsa, This feels like a ballroom of friends or of friendly strangers. We are drinking at the bar, me sipping the lone manhattan among a small sea of cosmopolitans. As the music picks up, a pack of people arrive, mostly women, dressed in wild colors, walking in like a samba school, refugees from another affair. The men arrive later. They eye the women who are nodding their heads and bodies, swaying to the drums, the rhythm. The whole place has soon erupted and, somehow, I am also in the middle of the dance floor, hips moving in a south american style. We have all collided now, the giggling girls from earlier, the men in pursuit, the strangers at the end of the bar. We are all sharing this moment.
On the next day, the sun is breaking the sky open, dissipating an early morning rain, reflecting itself endlessly in a patchwork of quivering puddles. The local coffeshop is full of us, all of us drinking coffee, reading our books and newspapers, squinting at the sun.
Friday, April 11, 2003
Between pain and pleasure there are three
creatures. One looks at a wall,
the second puts on a sad disposition
and the third advances on tiptoes;
but, between you and me,
only second creatures exist.
Leaning on my forehead, the day
agrees that, in truth,
there is much accuracy in space;
but, if the happiness, that, after all, has size,
begins, alas! in my mouth,
who is going to ask me for my word?
To the instantaneous meaning of eternity
corresponds
this encounter vested with black thread,
but to your temporal farewell,
corresponds solely what is immutable,
your creature, the soul, my word.
- Cesar Vallejo, from Payment of Bones (1923-1936)
creatures. One looks at a wall,
the second puts on a sad disposition
and the third advances on tiptoes;
but, between you and me,
only second creatures exist.
Leaning on my forehead, the day
agrees that, in truth,
there is much accuracy in space;
but, if the happiness, that, after all, has size,
begins, alas! in my mouth,
who is going to ask me for my word?
To the instantaneous meaning of eternity
corresponds
this encounter vested with black thread,
but to your temporal farewell,
corresponds solely what is immutable,
your creature, the soul, my word.
- Cesar Vallejo, from Payment of Bones (1923-1936)
If you happen to get invited to the San Francisco Ballet because a friend has an extra ticket and you go and you love the performance, with its sublime production of the germanic nanna's lied, then you should also grab some dessert downstairs, rushed, in an intermission, chocolate served between the dances.
Now twice someone has mentioned Taco Portal, a psychedelic trance affair at San Francisco's Border Cantina. This is irresistible. I will be there next thursday or next.
Now twice someone has mentioned Taco Portal, a psychedelic trance affair at San Francisco's Border Cantina. This is irresistible. I will be there next thursday or next.
Tuesday, April 08, 2003
A good friend hands me a ticket to go anywhere in the world. The ticket is to anywhere, so the farther the better I suppose. But how do I balance distance with desire?
Travel always evokes an exciting sense of escape, of at least temporary freedom. Its a fusion of the novel and of the tempting idea of losing oneself in time. One is able to reset oneself, to at least shed this restlessness, if only temporarily.
The challenge is to throw yourself into time with no structure and not succumb to boredom. To find a way to focus on a present where events follow each other in natural succession and each task seems immediate and necessary.
Travel is imminent.
Travel always evokes an exciting sense of escape, of at least temporary freedom. Its a fusion of the novel and of the tempting idea of losing oneself in time. One is able to reset oneself, to at least shed this restlessness, if only temporarily.
The challenge is to throw yourself into time with no structure and not succumb to boredom. To find a way to focus on a present where events follow each other in natural succession and each task seems immediate and necessary.
Travel is imminent.
Monday, April 07, 2003
A rough night amidst dreams of spirals. I tell very few people that I dream of spirals so this is an admission of sorts. I think in spirals. I do calculations in my head with spirals.
I have tried a few times to put on paper the shape and dimensions of my dreams. But, in my head, I can zoom in and out at will and so I have no sense of scale, no fixed reference for these things, these mathematical organisms.
They do have an orientation. I associate numbers with points on the spiral. The number 10 is at about what I'd consider 9 o'clock on a clockface. The number 1000 is also at that orientation, on the next trip around the curve. Then, surprisingly, the next number is about 1 decillion - 10^33. I can not be sure that that is where these numbers stand. As I zoom in to discover them, the larger spiral loses its focus, I am in too close, and I am left looking at the local topography.
Sometimes, in my head, I will quickly zoom in, hoping to discern the local shape of the curve. It's not smooth, I have gathered that much. There are bumpy sections on its spine, some bumpier than others.
The number 13, for example, has given me a lot of trouble. It seems somehow to have an odd place among the folds of the curve, as if it is not always there or as if the curve takes an unexpected twist. This has, for me, practical implications since I do even simple addition like this, by climbing along the curve.
Ask me what 8+5 is and, half the time i will tell you it is 12.
Friday, April 04, 2003
A few quick things. The Robots have Feelings Too show coming up here in San Francisco. A lot of great stuff - much of it online at the website above. I'll try to find time to visit.
Two unrelated friends talk about Thomas Struth.
I've been getting a lot of good music from Radiovista. The current playlists are right here. I've been looking forward to each new mix. Eclectic, fantastic stuff.
Tuesday, April 01, 2003
My friend Lisa writes me to let me know that she is on the cover of a Polish art magazine. That is her on the left in the above pictures, wearing a skirt and wielding a red light saber.
The magazine Raster is online and looks interesting even if, like me, you dont understand Polish and have to settle for looking at the pretty pictures (ooh! Nan Goldin.)
When I think of Lisa, I still think of her as I knew her in college and I think of play-doh carrots. She used to buy orange and green play-doh and make hundreds, no thousands, of tiny play-doh carrots - small enough that you could roll them between two fingers.
She left these carrots everywhere, she kept them in tiny boxes and also let them run wild all over her room. Sometimes, at unexpected moments, like when removing a book from a shelf, out would come a little stream of carrots.
I am still not sure whether this was some sort of art project or whether it was just playful obsessiveness. With Lisa, I'm not sure there is a difference.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
