I love some of the things I overhear in this city, and just the other day I heard a tidbit close to my heart. One gentleman posited to another that the future of sales was not in large quantities of online sales with small profit margins, but rather in the large margin, low quantity trade of goods. He went on to stipulate that large volume interactions of any kind were inimical to good business.
As with most of the world, there is no either/or in e-commerce. I have heard such a number of people declaiming the Amazon revolution, but in a broad sense it is no different from any other commerce innovation. Commodities have changed in name but not in nature, and are still traded in bulk. Craftworks are still traded in single fashion. Boutique items are still exchanged on a smaller scale with greater profit margin. So why cry havoc when large corporations form their own market places? There is little room for conspiracy, no more so than ever before. The venue has changed, but the nature of trade has not.
In internet advertising there exists the term "CPC" or cost per click. The idea is that volume will generate revenue (a simplified but relevant definition). There are also "CPA" revenue plans, with greater gratification over fewer exchanges. So, by this definition, when our Bartholemew runs through the sack of gold given him for the last hat and finds the king to be too stingy, he can sell the other 499 hats at market. Since many of the hats are plain, they can be sold in bulk. That way, a cheaper item will move faster, requiring lower overhead and generating faster, more efficient revenue. The more elaborate hats may be displayed and sold piecemeal, being of greater value.
The former hats are Amazon. The latter hats are boutique.
Economics by dint of Dr. Seuss. There you have it.
22 April 2011
11 April 2011
The Uncarved Block OR The Profession of Changing P'u
I work at a daycare with children spanning the range of Infant to Preschooler, and we spend much of our time knee deep in poo.
We are adults, of course, and so the tendency is to call it by more socially acceptable terms; as adults it should be shit, crap, or perhaps even faeces or excrement. These widely accepted adult terms are not, of course, acceptable for children. Shit is violent, crap simply vulgar, and faeces/excrement are just above developmental levels.
Poo it is.
We spend quite a lot of time talking about it, given that we are so very thoroughly ensconced in it for so much of our working day, and the monosyllabic delight bears a marked resemblance to another term, P'u. As far as I understand it, P'u is the concept of the unshaped block, the idea of our unchanged, simple nature unclouded by abstract thought or gross academic activity. I will not be the first to discard my hard-won education, but sublimating the "higher" aspects of thought to achieve a kind of heightened perception of the world (what one might call enlightenment) does have a certain ring to it.
Children are it's essence, which is no surprise given that Benjamin Hoff used Pooh to explain the Tao. They are unformed blocks, lacking in refinement. The business of a worthwhile daycare is early education, the shaping of those blocks. Lately, it occurs to me that shaping those blocks should not mean forming them into concrete shapes, but rather developing tools for that shaping. The hands that create the final form should be the child's, not mine, else the shape would not be there own.
I am not sure how such a thing could be accomplished, but the answer lies somewhere in the acceptance of that which is, be it poo or P'u.
We are adults, of course, and so the tendency is to call it by more socially acceptable terms; as adults it should be shit, crap, or perhaps even faeces or excrement. These widely accepted adult terms are not, of course, acceptable for children. Shit is violent, crap simply vulgar, and faeces/excrement are just above developmental levels.
Poo it is.
We spend quite a lot of time talking about it, given that we are so very thoroughly ensconced in it for so much of our working day, and the monosyllabic delight bears a marked resemblance to another term, P'u. As far as I understand it, P'u is the concept of the unshaped block, the idea of our unchanged, simple nature unclouded by abstract thought or gross academic activity. I will not be the first to discard my hard-won education, but sublimating the "higher" aspects of thought to achieve a kind of heightened perception of the world (what one might call enlightenment) does have a certain ring to it.
Children are it's essence, which is no surprise given that Benjamin Hoff used Pooh to explain the Tao. They are unformed blocks, lacking in refinement. The business of a worthwhile daycare is early education, the shaping of those blocks. Lately, it occurs to me that shaping those blocks should not mean forming them into concrete shapes, but rather developing tools for that shaping. The hands that create the final form should be the child's, not mine, else the shape would not be there own.
I am not sure how such a thing could be accomplished, but the answer lies somewhere in the acceptance of that which is, be it poo or P'u.
22 February 2011
Breaking and Entering, or Being Too Clever For Your Own Good
I hate boredom. Problematic, this, because I get bored quite easily, and therefore have to keep myself entertained with all manner of pursuits. When I was little, I'd go run around in the woods, which weren't really woods, mind you, but whatever environment/game/mission/story my mind had woven for me in that particular 5-minutes of my attention span. I grew older and it became reading, at which point Stephen King entered my life, and things took a turn for the worse. For awhile there it was Dungeons & Dragons (tm) which is a delightful, if socially odious, pursuit.
And, for a short period of time, the fine art of lock-picking was my pursuit.
For the various government agencies out there: I am not a thief, cutpurse, cat-burglar, con-man, international jewel thief, or [insert movie stereotype here].
I never stole from a person's house or broke into anything sensitive, valuable, or even all that risqué. Locks were just another kind of puzzle. More than that, lock-picking requires a certain bit of mental gymnastics. You must look at a thing and see all the little ways around it, all of the ways it can be exploited, manipulated, or twisted from it's native purpose to your own. It's the ultimate expression of a puzzle, really, because the lock ceases to be a puzzle, the picks your tools, and the door your environment. When done right, at least to my way of thinking, the enigma is in the mind.
You become the puzzle.
It's a damned useful hobby, especially since I have a tendency to lock myself out of things. Houses, cars, lockers, etc, I've accidentally denied myself entry to any number of needful places and access to needful things. Windows and locks and doors and combinations may present an obstacle, but with enough time they open up to an inquisitive mind.
Of course, various agencies concerned with the enforcement of law and protection of the people object to this kind of inquisitiveness. They assume (and rightly so) that if you are breaking into a thing, obviating the things locks or barriers, that you are somehow acting illicitly. Pesky things, laws. I say again, for the sake of clarity, that I do not use these talents for such illicit purposes (that way lies the Dark Side) but the distinction is lost upon many, if not all, cops. So on those occasions when my skills are practiced in the absence of appropriate sneakiness (a far more difficult skill to learn) I have attracted undue attention.
So tonight, I sit in my friend's house (she is graciously letting me stay here for the moment) and wait for the all too likely visit from a very nice woman or man in a dark blue suit, who will ask me with a very pointed hand on her/his gun what precisely I was doing crawling through that window and if I would please come along and answer some questions.
Too bloody clever for my own good.
And, for a short period of time, the fine art of lock-picking was my pursuit.
For the various government agencies out there: I am not a thief, cutpurse, cat-burglar, con-man, international jewel thief, or [insert movie stereotype here].
I never stole from a person's house or broke into anything sensitive, valuable, or even all that risqué. Locks were just another kind of puzzle. More than that, lock-picking requires a certain bit of mental gymnastics. You must look at a thing and see all the little ways around it, all of the ways it can be exploited, manipulated, or twisted from it's native purpose to your own. It's the ultimate expression of a puzzle, really, because the lock ceases to be a puzzle, the picks your tools, and the door your environment. When done right, at least to my way of thinking, the enigma is in the mind.
You become the puzzle.
It's a damned useful hobby, especially since I have a tendency to lock myself out of things. Houses, cars, lockers, etc, I've accidentally denied myself entry to any number of needful places and access to needful things. Windows and locks and doors and combinations may present an obstacle, but with enough time they open up to an inquisitive mind.
Of course, various agencies concerned with the enforcement of law and protection of the people object to this kind of inquisitiveness. They assume (and rightly so) that if you are breaking into a thing, obviating the things locks or barriers, that you are somehow acting illicitly. Pesky things, laws. I say again, for the sake of clarity, that I do not use these talents for such illicit purposes (that way lies the Dark Side) but the distinction is lost upon many, if not all, cops. So on those occasions when my skills are practiced in the absence of appropriate sneakiness (a far more difficult skill to learn) I have attracted undue attention.
So tonight, I sit in my friend's house (she is graciously letting me stay here for the moment) and wait for the all too likely visit from a very nice woman or man in a dark blue suit, who will ask me with a very pointed hand on her/his gun what precisely I was doing crawling through that window and if I would please come along and answer some questions.
Too bloody clever for my own good.
21 February 2011
On Crash Bars, 32" Doors, and the Death of Architectural Ingenuity.
One may bemoan progress until the tongue flings itself out of the mouth, and it will amount to little more than spitting into the wind. My purpose is not to belly-ache, but to eulogize (something I feel like doing quite a bit lately), and moreover to eulogize a time I am not strictly old enough to remember.
Nostalgia for a thing-not-remembered... is there a word for that?
It strikes me that the increase in oversight by governments federal and local regarding building codes is a mixed blessing. On the one hand, I am a fan of buildings that do not tend to burst into flames. On the other, unification of doorway width and mechanisms for entry/exit leaves us with a decided lack of character in our edifices. Walking through a hallway in an office in Peoria, Ill. looks much the same as in Bellevue, Wash., for the very simple reason that the rules for building those two offices are the same. It is worth mentioning that both of those buildings are accessible to the handicapped, less likely to invite rodents, and (my personal favourite) far less inclined to become conflagrations.
Much of America suffers from this same malady. The Franchise Philosophy has blended what might have been a developing character and turned it into a pair of tawdry, curved, glowing golden sticks. Now we have the customer service and places like Europe are relied on as the places, as Eddie Izzard would have it, "where the History comes from."
There is virtue in uniformity. It is remarkably comforting to walk into a "restaurant" and order a burger off the same menu, in the same environment, and from the same uniform (the people really don't matter, as I'm sure you know) as you would see one block away from your home. I don't deny or deride that desire, that need for the comfort of familiarity, any more than I would cast aspersions on my own happiness when seeing my family. As with many things, it is the extremity of the desire that bothers me, and moderation is a virtue in a world that has run riot on instant gratification.
I hear you say, "But Jason, my house isn't the same as my neighbours. They have character and definition." Sure, yours might do, and it might be different from your neighbours, but if your home was built within the last, say, fifteen years, then I want you to try something. Walk three or four houses down the street, maybe one cul-de-sac over, and find the house that look like yours on the outside. Go ahead. I'l be here when you get back.
I won't rail against uniformity, because it is a boon for many. Uniformity makes a variety of very nifty things very much more possible. I will (quite readily) rail against the unconscious assumption that uniformity is the only/best/needful choice. Then again, I rail against unconscious all the time.
It comes from being an insomniac.
Nostalgia for a thing-not-remembered... is there a word for that?
It strikes me that the increase in oversight by governments federal and local regarding building codes is a mixed blessing. On the one hand, I am a fan of buildings that do not tend to burst into flames. On the other, unification of doorway width and mechanisms for entry/exit leaves us with a decided lack of character in our edifices. Walking through a hallway in an office in Peoria, Ill. looks much the same as in Bellevue, Wash., for the very simple reason that the rules for building those two offices are the same. It is worth mentioning that both of those buildings are accessible to the handicapped, less likely to invite rodents, and (my personal favourite) far less inclined to become conflagrations.
Much of America suffers from this same malady. The Franchise Philosophy has blended what might have been a developing character and turned it into a pair of tawdry, curved, glowing golden sticks. Now we have the customer service and places like Europe are relied on as the places, as Eddie Izzard would have it, "where the History comes from."
There is virtue in uniformity. It is remarkably comforting to walk into a "restaurant" and order a burger off the same menu, in the same environment, and from the same uniform (the people really don't matter, as I'm sure you know) as you would see one block away from your home. I don't deny or deride that desire, that need for the comfort of familiarity, any more than I would cast aspersions on my own happiness when seeing my family. As with many things, it is the extremity of the desire that bothers me, and moderation is a virtue in a world that has run riot on instant gratification.
I hear you say, "But Jason, my house isn't the same as my neighbours. They have character and definition." Sure, yours might do, and it might be different from your neighbours, but if your home was built within the last, say, fifteen years, then I want you to try something. Walk three or four houses down the street, maybe one cul-de-sac over, and find the house that look like yours on the outside. Go ahead. I'l be here when you get back.
I won't rail against uniformity, because it is a boon for many. Uniformity makes a variety of very nifty things very much more possible. I will (quite readily) rail against the unconscious assumption that uniformity is the only/best/needful choice. Then again, I rail against unconscious all the time.
It comes from being an insomniac.
20 February 2011
On Eulogies, Police, Woodcarving, and what passes for a Riot.
A man was shot by another man. This is not news.
One man was homeless. This is not news.
That man made things with his hands. This is not news.
The other regularly carried a gun. This is not news.
The other was a cop. This is news.
"SPD doesn't protect you. SPD controls you." This is not news.
"The Greatest Tyranny is that which perpetrated under color of law." This is not news.
"Roast a pig." This is not news.
I wore a mask. This is not news.
I assaulted a man. This is not news.
I pushed his bike, pushed him. This is not news.
That man was a cop. This is news.
That man, that woman, those others, they used pepper spray. This is news.
One man made things with his hands.
The other was a cop.
This is news.
I wear a face shield. This is not news.
I wear a uniform. This is not news.
I carry a gun. This is not news.
This is my job. This is not news.
I am a person. This is not news.
He was one of us. This is news.
One man.
The other.
This is news.
Today, I stood in the light.
I wore no mask.
I needed no face-shield.
He was my brother.
He was one of us.
But today, we didn't need pepper spray
hastily scrawled slogans
uniforms
costumes
only light, and words, and a place to stand
Two men.
This is not news.
This is eulogy.
------------
The photos that sourced some of the images are here.
Some images here came from my brief first-hand observation.
Some images here came from TV (regrettably, Q13 FOX).
This is as close as I will dare to come to eulogizing John T. Williams.
I wish the "anarchists" of Friday's antics had restrained themselves to any fraction of that degree.
One man was homeless. This is not news.
That man made things with his hands. This is not news.
The other regularly carried a gun. This is not news.
The other was a cop. This is news.
"SPD doesn't protect you. SPD controls you." This is not news.
"The Greatest Tyranny is that which perpetrated under color of law." This is not news.
"Roast a pig." This is not news.
I wore a mask. This is not news.
I assaulted a man. This is not news.
I pushed his bike, pushed him. This is not news.
That man was a cop. This is news.
That man, that woman, those others, they used pepper spray. This is news.
One man made things with his hands.
The other was a cop.
This is news.
I wear a face shield. This is not news.
I wear a uniform. This is not news.
I carry a gun. This is not news.
This is my job. This is not news.
I am a person. This is not news.
He was one of us. This is news.
One man.
The other.
This is news.
Today, I stood in the light.
I wore no mask.
I needed no face-shield.
He was my brother.
He was one of us.
But today, we didn't need pepper spray
hastily scrawled slogans
uniforms
costumes
only light, and words, and a place to stand
Two men.
This is not news.
This is eulogy.
------------
The photos that sourced some of the images are here.
Some images here came from my brief first-hand observation.
Some images here came from TV (regrettably, Q13 FOX).
This is as close as I will dare to come to eulogizing John T. Williams.
I wish the "anarchists" of Friday's antics had restrained themselves to any fraction of that degree.
15 February 2011
Two years in the making, first chunk out of the box.
WAITING
The stage opens on a park bench on a sunny day.
DAVID sits, watching passers-by. He appears in the
mode of post-college urban vagabond.
JENNIFER enters from offstage, carrying her lunch
in one hand and a paperback book in another. She
is clearly an off-duty cube-dweller, looking for a
bit of peace in a corporate life. Seeing DAVID on
the bench, she hesitates, passes, and crosses
opposite, offstage. DAVID notes with some interest
as she passes.
She returns shortly with a frustrated look,
passing back by the park bench. Her search for an
empty bench is thwarted, and she pauses to
consider DAVID and his bench. She decides and
sits.
A pause as she opens her book, removes a sandwich,
and begins her lunch.
DAVID
(waves and smiles)
JENNIFER
(nervously returns same)
DAVID watches someone pass. He does this with a
deal of muttering, note-taking, and evident
enjoyment. JENNIFER watches this process out of
the corner of her eye.
DAVID
Hey, uh--
JENNIFER
(nervously)
What?
DAVID
I, uh... nothing. Do you know what time it is?
JENNIFER
(checks her watch)
Half-past.
DAVID
Right, thanks.
JENNIFER smiles and returns eagerly to her book.
DAVID begins avidly to follow the passers-by. His
commentary becomes barely audible in the following
moments, culminating in an excited burst of
laughter. JENNIFER, as one might expect, is
suspicious of this behaviour.
DAVID
(noticing her notice)
Sorry... On your lunch-hour?
JENNIFER
Yes.
(against her better judgement)
You?
DAVID
People watching.
A beat.
JENNIFER
Wait, what?
DAVID
I'm watching people.
JENNIFER
Who?
DAVID
People... y'know, people, just... people walking past,
in the park.
JENNIFER
Riiiight.
(begins to gather her lunch and leave,
can't help but ask)
You're really just sitting here, watching people?
DAVID
Pretty much.
JENNIFER
pretty much?
DAVID
Well, sometimes I walk around a little.
JENNIFER
But... It's... That's just... Why?
DAVID
(humorous deadpan)
I'm a serial killer.
(JENNIFER laughs, in spite of herself)
No, really, I read the handbook. Bundy wrote a lot of
it, he's quite good. Part of the whole serial-killer
aesthetic is sitting in the park, picking out your
victims. Traditionally speaking, I should be wearing a
black hat, but I'm kind of cheap.
JENNIFER
(essaying with caution)
I guess the Fraternal Brotherhood of Psychopath's will
have to cite you for union violations.
DAVID
Let them bitch, I never paid my union dues in the first
place.
They laugh.
JENNIFER
Seriously though--
DAVID
Only if I have to be.
JENNIFER
Why watch people in a park? I mean, it's not like their
all that interesting.
DAVID
Really?
JENNIFER
Really.
DAVID
Pick one.
JENNIFER
Pick one what?
DAVID
Pick one of these oh-so-interesting people, and I'll
tell you how they can be quite so interesting.
JENNIFER
(checking her watch, smiling)
Oh-Kay... Fine, why not. Why not try...
next fragment
DAVID
and she comes to sit in the park every day at lunchtime
to--
JENNIFER
pick up a new set of de-crypted cables from her contact
DAVID
to send back to her handler behind the IRON CURTAIN!!!
JENNIFER
or she could be picking up a dossier on a new contract
hit
DAVID
(spotting something)
or spying on a clandestine diplomatic meeting
(pointing)
JENNIFER
What, those two? By the pond? HAH! The duck pond of
detente.
DAVID
Buh-dum Psh!
JENNIFER
(long pause)
Maybe... Maybe she comes down here because it's the
only sunlight she gets to see in the day. Because
Monday through Friday for four years she's come down
here to the same park bench and eaten the same lunch.
DAVID
Always the same?
JENNIFER
The food changes, but it always tastes the same. And no
matter what she does, she can't figure out how to
change it. She'll always be here.
Long, maudlin pause.
DAVID
Naaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
(any long, emphatic sound of negation
will do)
JENNIFER
What?
The stage opens on a park bench on a sunny day.
DAVID sits, watching passers-by. He appears in the
mode of post-college urban vagabond.
JENNIFER enters from offstage, carrying her lunch
in one hand and a paperback book in another. She
is clearly an off-duty cube-dweller, looking for a
bit of peace in a corporate life. Seeing DAVID on
the bench, she hesitates, passes, and crosses
opposite, offstage. DAVID notes with some interest
as she passes.
She returns shortly with a frustrated look,
passing back by the park bench. Her search for an
empty bench is thwarted, and she pauses to
consider DAVID and his bench. She decides and
sits.
A pause as she opens her book, removes a sandwich,
and begins her lunch.
DAVID
(waves and smiles)
JENNIFER
(nervously returns same)
DAVID watches someone pass. He does this with a
deal of muttering, note-taking, and evident
enjoyment. JENNIFER watches this process out of
the corner of her eye.
DAVID
Hey, uh--
JENNIFER
(nervously)
What?
DAVID
I, uh... nothing. Do you know what time it is?
JENNIFER
(checks her watch)
Half-past.
DAVID
Right, thanks.
JENNIFER smiles and returns eagerly to her book.
DAVID begins avidly to follow the passers-by. His
commentary becomes barely audible in the following
moments, culminating in an excited burst of
laughter. JENNIFER, as one might expect, is
suspicious of this behaviour.
DAVID
(noticing her notice)
Sorry... On your lunch-hour?
JENNIFER
Yes.
(against her better judgement)
You?
DAVID
People watching.
A beat.
JENNIFER
Wait, what?
DAVID
I'm watching people.
JENNIFER
Who?
DAVID
People... y'know, people, just... people walking past,
in the park.
JENNIFER
Riiiight.
(begins to gather her lunch and leave,
can't help but ask)
You're really just sitting here, watching people?
DAVID
Pretty much.
JENNIFER
pretty much?
DAVID
Well, sometimes I walk around a little.
JENNIFER
But... It's... That's just... Why?
DAVID
(humorous deadpan)
I'm a serial killer.
(JENNIFER laughs, in spite of herself)
No, really, I read the handbook. Bundy wrote a lot of
it, he's quite good. Part of the whole serial-killer
aesthetic is sitting in the park, picking out your
victims. Traditionally speaking, I should be wearing a
black hat, but I'm kind of cheap.
JENNIFER
(essaying with caution)
I guess the Fraternal Brotherhood of Psychopath's will
have to cite you for union violations.
DAVID
Let them bitch, I never paid my union dues in the first
place.
They laugh.
JENNIFER
Seriously though--
DAVID
Only if I have to be.
JENNIFER
Why watch people in a park? I mean, it's not like their
all that interesting.
DAVID
Really?
JENNIFER
Really.
DAVID
Pick one.
JENNIFER
Pick one what?
DAVID
Pick one of these oh-so-interesting people, and I'll
tell you how they can be quite so interesting.
JENNIFER
(checking her watch, smiling)
Oh-Kay... Fine, why not. Why not try...
next fragment
DAVID
and she comes to sit in the park every day at lunchtime
to--
JENNIFER
pick up a new set of de-crypted cables from her contact
DAVID
to send back to her handler behind the IRON CURTAIN!!!
JENNIFER
or she could be picking up a dossier on a new contract
hit
DAVID
(spotting something)
or spying on a clandestine diplomatic meeting
(pointing)
JENNIFER
What, those two? By the pond? HAH! The duck pond of
detente.
DAVID
Buh-dum Psh!
JENNIFER
(long pause)
Maybe... Maybe she comes down here because it's the
only sunlight she gets to see in the day. Because
Monday through Friday for four years she's come down
here to the same park bench and eaten the same lunch.
DAVID
Always the same?
JENNIFER
The food changes, but it always tastes the same. And no
matter what she does, she can't figure out how to
change it. She'll always be here.
Long, maudlin pause.
DAVID
Naaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
(any long, emphatic sound of negation
will do)
JENNIFER
What?
02 February 2011
Song
A fragment, for fun...
In the Void there was energy; energy lackin’ form and purpose. This energy came together in places, here and there, and the first angels were born. One angel, the first, got so full of power that he started vibratin’. That vibratin’ got to makin’ a kind of sound, and the first angel was hummin’. It (for an angel is neither he nor she) saw that it could make that hum with different speed and with more or less energy, and It made the first melody.
The other angels, they came near this new sound, and they got to hummin’ too. They made the same sounds, then the same melody, then got it in their heads to make a whole ‘nother kind of melody.
The angels made a chorus.
And that first angel, it got to thinkin’. they were new thoughts, the first of thoughts, so they started out simple. It thought
This is singing.
I am the one singing.
I AM.
And it saw the others around it, and it thought
They, too, are singing.
They ARE.
The first thoughts became a part of the song, and they became the words of the Song, and though the language has changed over time, the words really ain’t changed at all.
This is good.
That first angel called all the others to it and got them to singing more, and louder, and stronger. It told them
You ARE, you are the first that are, and you are singing. Is it not good?
And they knew that it was. They knew words, they knew themselves, and they put their words into the Song that it might become more.
That it might become the world.
And y’know what? That Song was good.
In the beginning, there was a song.
Most of the people on this planet, the ones who pray to one of the gods thats got themselves popular these days, they’d say it was a word. I can’t much blame them for it. Songs ain’t like they used to be and words is everywhere, so it’d be easy to believe a song couldn’t do the job. But no, it was a song created the universe.
See, back in the Void (somethin’ everyone seems to agree on is the Void) there were no Songs, no words, no things at all (not even so much as ideas), save for the angels. They’re not like people tell you, Angels. Not much more than bundles of energy. Harps and robes and wings and such, those is just how people dress an Idea up to make it ‘important.’In the Void there was energy; energy lackin’ form and purpose. This energy came together in places, here and there, and the first angels were born. One angel, the first, got so full of power that he started vibratin’. That vibratin’ got to makin’ a kind of sound, and the first angel was hummin’. It (for an angel is neither he nor she) saw that it could make that hum with different speed and with more or less energy, and It made the first melody.
The other angels, they came near this new sound, and they got to hummin’ too. They made the same sounds, then the same melody, then got it in their heads to make a whole ‘nother kind of melody.
The angels made a chorus.
And that first angel, it got to thinkin’. they were new thoughts, the first of thoughts, so they started out simple. It thought
This is singing.
I am the one singing.
I AM.
And it saw the others around it, and it thought
They, too, are singing.
They ARE.
The first thoughts became a part of the song, and they became the words of the Song, and though the language has changed over time, the words really ain’t changed at all.
This is good.
That first angel called all the others to it and got them to singing more, and louder, and stronger. It told them
You ARE, you are the first that are, and you are singing. Is it not good?
And they knew that it was. They knew words, they knew themselves, and they put their words into the Song that it might become more.
That it might become the world.
And y’know what? That Song was good.
24 January 2011
Automata
automaton:
a) A mechanism that is self-operating.
b) An individual who acts in a mechanical fashion.
When viewed with a calculating eye, life on our dear planet can appear quite mechanical. Living creatures are, in the scientific sense, defined by their ability to react to the world around them. Plants react to the sun, leaning into its rays; invertebrates composed of only the most mundane structures still hunt, kill and eat (though I would point out that the absence of a brain still does not make the second action all that remarkable); even humans respond to our biological routines more often than our much-lauded minds. I firmly believe that we are more than automatons. The question in my mind is to what degree that is true.
There are many levels and degrees to consciousness. If you have trouble coneiving of that, just think of what you feel like in the morning, just after you wake up, whe your body is in second gear, your mind’s still in neutral, and the most complex sentence you are capable of begins and ends with “guh.” Think about those convivial nights when, after a bit of a drink, or two, or three, standing up is only partially a vertical action. For that matter consider sex. There are times when we function on autopilot, and it’s probably a good thing. If we were entirely conscious through every action and moment in our lives, we’d be burned out before passing through puberty.
Autopilot is a damned fine thing, but in what measure? I look around today and I see so many people flipping burgers, picking up drycleaning, making coffee; people with their iPods on, their eyes cast down, their minds turned off; people on autopilot through everything. They are on the bus, in Starbucks, on the street, in their cars, at their desks. From the slack face of the movie-goer to the rage-contorted visage of a fundamentalist politician, automatic response is leaving the realm of the occasional and entering the omnipresent. I understand it well: taking leave of your senses is entirely seductive.
History is littered with examples of group-think overcoming basic common sense and human decency, usually to the detriment of some ethnic, religious, or sexual minority. There is a fairly well-known and well-documented desire in the human animal to pursue belonging and to abandon personal ethics and morality to achieve closer ties to the group. The Matrix had it right when Lawrence Fishbourne said that some of us will fight to stay in, even if we know what we’re participating in is false. Living in what is ostensibly an enlightened age, this is troubling.
We are automata. Whether we intend to be or not, we are increasingly dependent upon the constant input of data to determine what we think, say and do. We quote pop-culture, reference movies, deliver one-liners as if they were gospel from on high; crank that volume high enough, get drunk enough, consume and hear and yell and see enough and you won’t hear that little voice inside that says “But wait, this isn’t you...”
This is the point where I look in a mirror and see that I’ve morphed into that old guy on the porch of his house, shaking his head ruefully at the kids on their skateboards and muttering something about how “times just isn’t what they used to be.” Yes, I’m beginning to sound a bit alarmist, but I’m aware that this is not a new problem. Human beings are one very short, slippery step removed from creatures that are free from the blessing/curse of conscious thought, and the maintenance of that minuscule separation has been a recurrent theme of our history. Regardless, there is an element of fear concurrent to the realization that we are, at our core, very fancy machines.
02 January 2011
Why are babies so damned cute?
It seems like a specious question at best, but I've found a hell of a lot more depth to it than I would have expected. Women (almost universally) and Men (past a certain age, when the half-sexual/half-violent torrents of puberty and machismo behaviour have passed) both feel the siren call of the newly-minted of our species. We are drawn, and for me (at least) the draw is part seduction and part repulsion. Not because the child (whatever child, whatever baby exists in potentia for the purposes of this conversation) is seductive or repulsive, but because that child is in itself abstract. It is potential incarnate, and potential is nothing if not seductive.
The longer I work with children, the more this question becomes urgent and practical in nature. If I am to be a positive force in the lives of these children (and I will allow myself to be nothing less) I must understand my answer to this question more completely. In the presence of these kids, and in particular the presence of Winston (because all babies look like Winston Churchill without being in any way like Winston Churchill) I feel this remarkable will to help, a pull that starts somewhere in my amygdala (that remarkable part of the human brain that kept thousands and millions of my ancestors from ending their day in the gullet of a large cat) and ends knee deep in dirty diapers. So it is instinct... but that's not all.
Those answers - It's instinct, It's biological, It's genetic - are too simple. Yes, there is a component of my reaction that is programmed in the code of my genetics, but there's more than that. Human beings are tribal creatures; civilization is what we do, an integral part of who we are. Civilization is the ordering of the necessary to preserve the future of our species. That future, of course, is our children.
So there's yet another element. Hope for the future and duty to those who come after, etc etc. Lofty, noble, thoroughly worthy... and completely weak. ‘Civilization’ is a purely abstract concept and, as such, doesn't even come close to the visceral reaction I've experienced. It’s not the ever-present possibility of massive legal backlash (just kidding, parents), though that’s certainly one hell of a motivator. We’ve eliminated fear and pheromones, so what does that leave us?
For quite a long time now I’ve been working at jobs that, upon successful completion, may leave me slightly wealthier, but in no way fulfilled or even mildly satisfied. I would never have predicted that children, in particular the early education thereof, would be the job that would fulfill that need, or that finding that fulfilling roll would be so gratifying. Maslow, by the way, is the one you can hear laughing from within his grave.
There you have it: self-actualization... Or it could be that if Winston and her ilk weren’t quite so cute, they wouldn’t make it home from the hospital in one piece. Never underestimate the need for self preservation when you’re annoying.
Cheers,
J.D.
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