co-evolution

highlights from a wide-ranging and interesting conversation, laid on the table without pretense.

* Philosophers are after the Truth [capital T], but they, like composers, are merely the articulators of a moment, making the Zeitgeist palpable/lisible/audible, orating from the mountaintop their own personal truth. The successful truths find resonance with the people of the time (or the time just after).

That is, Nietzsche wasn't so much calling for the death of God as much as proclaiming it. The messenger not the executioner.

* We live in a predominantly capitalist pseudo-democracy for a good reason: competition, survival of the fittest. Societies evolve like species. Religions, too. Myriad economic systems, myriad insignificant religions, have attempted to win over the hearts of people, but only a few have succeeded. Christianity succeeded in the West *because* it declared Jesus was the one and only son of God. While that rings false to me in the 21st century, it is perhaps the one decision that allowed me to hear about him at all.

Capitalism was just one possible system—of the 10,000 we tried—but was not so much chosen as it was proven to be effective. The reason why it won out is a big question. It's not the fairest system, it's probably not even the most efficient system, but it is dominating right now.

Maybe societies succeed or fail not because of what they give people but based on what people give them. Society creates its own needs, people fill them. Ultimately, when people have a role in society, when they are giving back, they feel a part of it.

* People created societies based on their fear of the unknown in order to stabilize food availability and weather. Thus, we needed to dominate nature to provide stability. Domination is always inherent, unavoidable.

We all need a different mix of certainty and uncertainty. I'm an uncertainty freak and so don't feel compelled to relinquish options in the name of stability. As such I neither join nor create many organizations. [Somehow, being on a bike team is the only one that makes sense.] But, still, I depend on organizations that others have created to give a modicum of stability to our chaotic lives.

Bigger organizations are more stable. More stability means less individual freedom. How do we balance these? We don't. We let the market decide. We let the powerful—the organization leaders—get away with more and more until the unfairness becomes excessive, then we stage protests and occupy shit.

We need organizations, but when there are organizations who have been organized to organized other organizations, it gets a little too meta for real life.

We seem to be living in the most stable time for the most number of people ever in history. There's a lot of evil still in the world, but we need to acknowledge how far we've come lest we pale at the sight of how far is left to go.

The Shape of the Sword

Last night before bed, I read The Shape of the Sword by Borges.

I have it in a book, legitimately bought from a bookstore.

As far as a plot archetype, it's more of a Keyser Söze story than anything. It's a short story, hard to really develop the characters.

It's also a story within a story, so it's hard to tell who the main character is.

If anything, it's the Outlaw Myth: the hero has stumbled and fallen and is using his one virtue to find redemption. Except there is no redemption nor any attempt to obtain it.

Turns out, you can read it online.

It's a story almost devoid of plot, entirely based on fleshing out a single character and then twisting the plot. It's fine for a short story, but for a feature-length movie, a little thin.

Would make a good short, maybe.

bongiorno

Finally, it's on Netflix streaming—but not for long.

Breaking Away.

Yes, one of the few bike racing movies, one that I should probably own (if I still believed in owning CDs and DVDs) that was shown in Grant Park earlier this year to kick off bike-to-work week.

I was loathe to attribute it to an archetype, as if they were even avoidable. A real story about real characters, the movie is a far cry from Shutter Island, a plot device wrapped in clichés.

It's about 4 recently graduated high school friends who have nothing to show for their first summer out. No jobs, no aspirations, only feelings of inadequacy for being townies in a college town. Sons of stonecutters, quarrymen, they're called cutters. And you can see the word impale itself in their flesh each time it's leveled at them—like a knife.

Dave stands out. Having won an Italian bike, he's been obsessed with bikes and Italy, speaking either Italian or broken English with an affected accent. He's blissed out living in his delusion while his friends and father are downtrodden realists, even pessimists.

Dave meets a girl in this state who believes him to be an Italian exchange student, presumably studying at the University. Double lie.

But he's so happy, albeit due explicitly to his idealism and naïveté.

He reminds me of myself for a few months in the Fall of '07.

And naïve idealism is precisely what makes his fall so hard. The Italians come to town for a race; Dave participates, spends the first half of the race catching up to them; he tries to hang with them, riding with them, speaking Italian; they [take offense to this?] stick a pipe in his spokes and crash him out of the race. [Were they earnestly worried about losing to him?]

In Dave's case, his idealism was shattered, his flesh bruised. He stops speaking Italian, even to his girl [who dumps him], and he suddenly resembles any one of his dejected friends. His father finally recognizes him, content that he's finally acting "normal" again. Or just real?

His father had been highly put out by the Italian act, and though he probably didn't realize, maybe deep down he was just concerned that his son's idealized delusion would turn around to cause him pain. Was he just being (subconsciously) protective or just miffed that his son could be so namby-pamby happy?

Then there's the big race. The Little 500. It goes as you might expect, and we feel the requisite joy at the end.

As for an archetype, I had forgotten about the "Rags to Riches" type, one that includes a "Coming of Age" type. Each of the 4 high school friends develops as the story progresses, leaving behind their insecurities and stepping boldly into new terrain. And the hero, the main character Dave, experiences the "False Ending" in which the bad guys win and it looks bleak. But that makes the triumph at the end all the greater.

Win.

bettering morning coffee

There are some friends who you have friend-dates with, and then there are those to whose house you bring a bike pump to fill their tires and eat some bread. And then maybe watch them do their hair and put their makeup on.

It's nice when they live close by.

And sometimes you can trigger deep truths from within that erupt unexpectedly; sometimes you learn things about coffee.

The friend in question used to work at a swank coffee shop in Brooklyn—Oslo—who, to my taste buds roasts the best coffee in the world. Try Freya.

[Shameless attempt at promotional support? Or simply earnest?]

One new hot thing in the world of coffee is Chemex: a glass carafe with a filter for the beans on top. Sounds too simple to be good, but it's the new big thing. And apparently there's a right way and a righter way to pour.

The trick, apparently, is to do an initial pour that soaks the beans and releases the bitter aromas. Then it's time for a long slow pour in a spiral, starting from the outside.

I tried the first trick on our standard drip coffee maker, and it worked.

It requires you making some hot water first, but pour it over the beans and let them steam for a few seconds before starting the pot. Turns cheap Trader Joe's coffee into acid-free B+ coffee.

RWG

While walking this morning—my new habit, going through my listening list on Spotify—I saw a paradox. A man came up to me and said "I am lying to you like you lie to yourself."

Like a canary in a coal mine he was a warning sign of things to come.

It was cold out this morning, so I was bundled up; I realized that, inside, I was wrapped like a mummy, layers of bandages on top of bandages on top of wounds.

I was listening to The Woodmans—music by David Lang, a composer whom I greatly admire, but not in this case; what I was hearing was oversimplified, overly repetitious and banal. However infectious his other music, this was a disease I was not contracting.

One of my favorite pieces of his—"Cheating, Lying Stealing"—has obvious repetition, but each time a cell repeats, it's altered in some way. The inattentive listener might not even realize, but everyone will perceive its unmechanicalness—irregularly regular.

For the least initiated listeners, this is a relatively easy point of entry, all while keeping it interesting. The Woodmans sounded like film music.

Which, it turns out, it is.

Or was. Whatever tense, it was intended as the score to a film, which leaves it 2-dimensional when you give it your full attention. Now that I know, the jury is still out; now I have to think of it totally differently.

The point of this post, however, is not my new habit of walking in the morning, at the end of night—the easiest way to stay healthy (in the bike racing off-season)—but tools for creativity, specifically the Random Word Generator. Hence all the underlined words.

xmas 2011

in the days leading up to christmas, i learned that i'm nearing the end of my money.

i'm never quite sure how that happens, but it happens every winter, usually not till late february or march.

this year, sooner. was it the bike racing? i did more bike racing this year which means 20-30 dollar entry fees and gas for getting to the races.

or was i just living an unsustainable lifestyle? not that i'm prone to excess, but i feel surrounded by people who don't have to be as careful with money. easy to get sucked along.

fortunately, i had already bought most of the presents for my family, so i didn't have to think about it too much while shopping.

i'm usually a terrible gift-giver, relying heavily on the "thought-that-counts". this year, however, i think i did alright. for my mom, the poetess, i got an international journal of poetry and the granta issue on chicago. for my dad... well, his present started off as something mysterious and impractical and ended up as something practical: roku. not without an air of mystery, the roku streams movies and such (pandora) to your tv. it's how some of my friends watch netflix. for my brother-in-law, the fixins for old fashioneds (whisky and bitters). for my sister, an illustrated history of graphic design in america. and for the kids, books.

the whole weekend, i tried to keep my caloric intake the right side of total bacchanalia but still felt overfull, oversugared, and overserved. every year i think it would be a lot better if i could just do a 3-hour bike ride at some point. but i never do.

christmas day night, i had an insight that i hope to elaborate on later. suffice it to say that i poked around on the internet to find the basic plot archetypes. i found a book that described the 7 basic forms. it looks a little long to read, but there are some good dissections, summaries, and reactions out there on the net.

but let's get to the good part, the result of which is a busted up nose and an emptiness in my belly.

i started to feel nauseous midday boxing day. i thought i was just over-caffeinated or overstuffed on holiday treats but it turned out to be more sinister.

i felt ill on the drive back to the city, where i dropped off my stuff at home and got on my bike. moving, circulating the blood made me feel better. i joined my family at RJ Grunts, the historic restaurant at the edge of Lincoln Park and the only decent family place within walking distance of the zoo. the real zoo, though was inside. hoards of families were stuffed into the 70s-themed tavern, and the possibility of getting a table was in serious question.

we got seated, though, at 2 separate tables on opposite ends of the restaurant. i was back to feeling sickly and deliberated on which table to join. the one, my sister, mom, and my baby niece lily; the other, my dad, my brother-in-law, and my toddler nephew lincoln. i chose the man-table and then had to deliberate on which deep-fried, greasy meat i'd be able to digest.

my choice raised eye-brows: tuna melt. [i never found out if it was good; it's still in my fridge.]

i rode slowly on the way home, not having the energy nor the intestinal fortitude to go fast, choosing low-traffic streets both for safety and quietude.

i considered stopping at the river to unleash the demons in my stomach, but the moment passed too quickly.

getting sick moves in a spiral. you feel on the verge of being sick but then it passes. when it comes back, it's worse but it passes. all the way until you are dozing on the couch, shivering under a warm blanket, concentrating on keeping your lunch inside where it belongs.

when the sweat comes, you know it's over.

made it to the bathroom, calmly took off my christmas-present-flannel, and was nearly ready for the onslaught. only the toilet seat was in my way, which i threw open with such urgency that it bounced, whacking the bridge of my nose on the way down.

it still hurts a little to wear glasses.

i felt so much better. not only was something malevolent inside but i was just full on excess. i felt depleted but ready to start over. not quite ready-ready—i still could only stomach glasses of water—but i knew i was on the mend.

so far today, i've had mostly bread and honey, some weak coffee with milk, and yogurt—starting slowly.

might need to take a nap...

Narrative Arc

Christmas day evening, I was alone in my room-room at home-home and, perhaps through the mysterious interconnectivity of the internet, I got turned on to the basic plot archetypes.

There's a book that came out I'll never read—too many pages—but there are several good summaries and reactions to it on the internet.

For as much as the Romantic Hero wants to be a unique individual, s/he still needs to feel a part of something.

"Yes, we're all individuals!"

Sometimes you're a camel in a caravan; sometimes you're just a camel in the desert.

Sometimes the path gets lost in the shifting sands.

I am both the driver of the caravan and the camels; being your own boss is de rigueur these days, especially if you're trying to do creative things.

And the question has remained unanswered—indeed, unasked: what's my archetype? Hero, Outlaw, Messiah, Vengeful Messiah, Blithe Angel?

Lately, I've felt more like an Outlaw. Potential, however, for a Hero. The Messiah would then go further and transform the world.

I'm not so much into vengeance: lucky for you. The Blithe Angel sounds more and more attractive.

I may be essentially one or all of these things in my core, but I have the freedom to try them all out, to avoid decision.

Indecision is a freedom. And a tiresome state.

Remembering where we've come from helps us see the arc, the trajectory of where we're going.

motherboards

On a whim, in a stupor induced by headcold, finding myself thinking clearly but simply, even more distracted than usual, I got interested in electronics.

It started with the annual winter yen to build a Theremin. Followed closely by the thought: how hard could it be?

Theremins are the electronic instruments from 1950s horror movies, an electronic, hands-free instrument that produces sound based on the performers hands interacting with electrical fields surrounding antennas.

Read about its basic operating principles per wikipedia.

It's one thing to know about Theremins, it's another to know how they work. I want to build one; I want to know how they work.

Which requires a serious dredging up of lost knowledge regarding electronics.

Actually, I never knew much about electronics, though I did well on the EM section of the Physics AP exam.

It's been that long.

Granted we built a robot, but I never got a good understanding of circuits beyond basic principles and simple schematics. A Theremin, it turns out, is pretty advanced.

So I decided to start small. A visit to American Science and Surplus (a wonderland of strangeness) resulted in me being the proud owner of a "My First Strobe Kit", a DIY electronic circuit that requires soldering ("sottering") and whatnot.

The more I think about electronic circuits, the more I don't understand them. How does information flow through them? I'm learning, of course, about resistors, potentiometers, capacitors, and whatever else. Lots to keep track of.

So I started with a problem, how to build a Theremin, which turned out to be too complicated, so I broke it down, and broke it down, and broke it down. Electricity is still pretty complicated, but with this Strobe kit I can at least start learning by doing.

[As if I needed another hobby.]

But maybe this is just a rhythm of thought, a wavelength, that I've been fostering, against all odds: trying to figure out how things work. It begins with identifying the problem and ends with breaking it down into the simplest components. Whether or not I put the parts back together remains to be seen.

Deconstruct first; reconstruct second.

Through this process, I've realized that I don't actually believe in anything. Or the opposite. I believe in too many things, contradictory things, that render them un-possible.

["Me fail English? That's unpossible!"]

For instance, it doesn't happen too often, but there was at least one time on the bike tour that someone asked me about my religious beliefs. I don't know how, but I realized that I both believe in God and in the death of God. I both believe in reincarnation and don't. I both believe in good and evil and don't.

It's like, when I get down to the electronic circuit of my mind, there's all these switches that allow both 1's and 0's.

Which coincides with this book that I'm reading: Erring by Mark C Taylor.

"There is a large, and I believe growing, number of people who find themselves in the middle of such extremes. Suspended between the loss of old certainties and the discovery of new beliefs, these marginal people constantly live on the border that both joins and separates belief and unbelief. They look but do not find, search but do not discover."

So I'm not so unusual. There's always consolation in that.