The Illuminated Dark Ages, or The Day the Internet Died

.

It wasn’t even the “major cathedral” there in Regensburg.  That would be St. Peters, a structure along the classic gothic lines of St. Stephens in Vienna.  This was St. Emmeram, a 13th century Abbey.  We had opted to take the afternoon as “free time” to wander around and explore the truly delightful Christmas Market that wrapped around the Abbey - far the best market of the cruise.  My boyhood favorite Kristkindle Mart in Vienna had sadly gone the way of county fairs.  I mean, cotton candy and Disney figures? Really. But that is another story. 

Back to St. Emmeram - which is now more widely known as the Castle of Thurn and Taxis as the result of a Medieval Cathedral Naming Rights Deal in the 1500s. From the outside it looked, well, very "13th centuryish.”  We came in what turned out to be a side door, rough plaster covered the outside corridor which held a wide variety of carved plaques filled with Latin. We stepped inside - the only two people in a staggeringly beautiful, breath-taking space.  Arches swept up - and I try not to exaggerate - fifty feet to ornately frescoed ceilings. The alter which seemed miles away - okay, so I do exaggerate - glittered like a fairy tale treasure trove. But no dragon stood guard over this golden hoard. Rather we walked past a host of saintly statutes, each seeming more elaborate than the one before. Golden gild and brilliant colors enveloped us. There was no haze of incense or murmured Latin liturgy - but it didn’t take much imagination to supply them both.  

It wasn’t long until some other 21st century souls invaded our private audience, so we tiptoed out, heading for the equally delightful but far more prosaic indulgences of the Gulgwein and cosy open fires of the Christmas market. 

Later that night I was reading up on St. Emmeram’s Abbey and learned that among the highlights of its long history was the fact that it was the site of the first Mass ever conducted in German. Fresh on the heels of our visit to St. Emmeram’s, that little factoid made me realize anew that for centuries the Catholic church was a purely visual experience for all but the priestly class versed in Latin. For everyone else in the community, God was virtual reality experience. The priest would tell the faithful Bible stories, walking amidst lavishly illustrated artistic wonders like those that adorned St. Emmeram’s.  And what did God sound like? Well, like Latin, of course. 

That is until that first German mass, right there in the abbey of St. Emmeram.  Suddenly  "God's words" were intelligible to people other than the priests. And when words can be understood, people will create questions.  I don’t know exactly how many years transpired between that first German mass and Martin Luther’s impertinent accusations at the Diet of Worms in 1517, but the road between Regensburg and Worms is a direct path. 

And what, you may well ask, does that have to do with the “death of the Internet?” 

Well, you sort of have to work with me here.  Prior to the "vernacular articulation” of the Catholic liturgy, faith for that community was a tangible, visual reality.  Faith was made real in places like St. Emmeram’s Abbey. With the coming of religious texts that were accessible to all literate individuals, questions, even doubt, invaded that formerly inviolate sphere.  It is important to note that Christendom did not die off with the coming of the vernacular liturgies and Bibles.  The Catholic Church flourished alongside upstarts like Luther’s new reading of faith.  But the church changed - radically.  That huge community of “the faithful” now spans a spectrum ranging from ultra-conservative evangelicals through Catholic and Protestant traditionalists to very flexible Unitarians. But that innocent trust reflected in the purity of the Abbey of St. Emmeram has, if not vanished, been significantly reduced. 

It would seem an equal display of naivety to still consider the Internet an “information superhighway.”  When Brin and Page set out to “organize” all human information, there was an implied purity to the undertaking.  Google’s first mantra “Don’t be evil,” now rings with the simplicity of a fairy tale. If there is a single notion that remains solid throughout the study of human communication it is that information equals power. And an equally consistent corollary is that a major portion of that power derives from the ability to define truth and reality.  

The first Obama election revealed to America, and its politicos and pundits, that the Internet was a powerful tool for shaping and driving political action. The controversies surrounding the recent Trump election reveals that it is an equally powerful tool for shaping the body politic’s perception of reality. Last December an armed young man from my home state of North Carolina barged into a Washington pizzeria because he had read a “news story” on the Internet that Hillary Clinton was running a child slavery/pedophile ring out of the establishment. Facebook currently finds itself embroiled in a controversy driven by its seemingly lackadaisical approach to allowing such “fake news stories” to be posted on its site - a site that, were it a country, would be the 2nd largest country in the world. And a site that, along with other corporately and politically motivated Internet entities, is increasingly influencing our perception of reality and our definition of truth. 

And that is what I mean by the day the Internet died.  When the fictional illuminations of "seemingly real" events distributed over the Internet overwhelm scientific and social scientific evidence in the competition to define "reality," the Internet, as originally conceived of as an objective repository of humanitity's accumulated knowledge, died. 

Obviously, the Internet is not going away.  If anything our dependence on interconnected digital technologies will increase.  What needs to change is our perception of “it.”    First, we must abandon the St. Emmeram-like notion of some type of "pure truth" out there on the “Internet.” There simply is no singular entity that is "the Internet." Rather there are innumerable entities creating their version of the truth, of reality, each seeking to win us to their banner.  And they have tools at their disposal that make St. Emmeram’s Abbey look like tinker toys.  Two related items: 

Item 1: I was standing in the check-out line at Michael’s Art Supply store yesterday and I noticed, hanging there by the now ubiquitous memory sticks and phone chargers, Virtual Reality viewers.  True they were versions of the old Google cardboard viewers. But at $3.75 a pop they provide, in conjunction with most smartphones,  a nifty realistic experience of limited content. 

Item 2: I read earlier today that United Airlines is going to provide Virtual Reality viewers - the real deal immersive type stuff - to travelers in their Business Class waiting lounges. No, I don’t know what they would be watching. Maybe travel videos of their destination which would have been relayed to the VR device via their phones. I dunno. 

Remembering that “the Internet” is simply a massive collection of vested interests seeking to define reality for target audiences, Virtual Reality brings a whole new dimension - or perhaps three or four of them - to the game. If “virtual reality” becomes a normal adjunct to “old-fashioned reality” how do we know which is which? As Charlie Brown would say, “Arrrrrrrgggh!” 

But before you look around for high places off of which to fling yourself, let me perhaps surprise you by saying, “Wait. This is not all bad news.” As a matter of fact it could be great news.  Think about it.  What happened when those folks back in St. Emmeram’s heard the mass in German?  Right. They had to think about it. They began to consider alternative interpretations. They began to take an active role in the construction of their reality, in their notion of faith and truth.  As we begin to realize the ease with which technology allows any group to portray a particular notion of reality, we must become evermore curious as to “what’s in for them?”  Increasingly the internet is the only game in town when it comes to presenting “truth” or “reality” to large numbers of people.  And while, yes, that does create unparalleled opportunities for hucksters and haters, it provides the same opportunities for what I still believe is the majority of people around us -  people with a shared desire to create a better, kinder, more harmonic world. 

There is a great old movie from 1969 - Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid - which, thanks to "the Internet,” you can watch whenever you want.  There is a scene in which Butch and the Kid have used every trick they know to dodge a pursuing posse.  Looking back over the wasteland they have just traversed, they see the telltale dust cloud of the pursuing posse. Butch turns to the Kid and says: “Who are those guys!?” 

That, more than anything else, needs to be our guiding light as we consider the seemingly limitless number of alternative realities presented to us by the evolving digital world: Who are those guys? What’s in it for them, and how does that mesh with the world I believe in and wish to help create? To whom do I attend, and who do I ignore? We may never return to the simple world of St. Emmeram, but if we learn to become thoughtful, critical consumers of today's “Internet" we may actually find our way to a better world for all.

. 

High in the Mist Above Quail Ridge

.

When left alone with the television remote I do not, despite my wife's suspicions, head over to ESPN and watch 300 pound men mindlessly pound each other in pursuit of touchdowns, concussions, and eventual mindlessness. That was my father's inclination. He could find, not only interest in any obscure athletic contest, but a reason to fervently root for one of the two contenders, neither of whom he had ever heard of. 

I, rather, search out nature documentaries hoping to hear the echo of Jacque Cousteau: "Here hidden within the mysterious depths . . ." or some modern pretender's hushed whisper, "Our trail camera has caught the first glimpse in 50 years of this creature, long given up as extinct. . ." 

It was with that same feeling of the naturalist’s cautious anticipation that I entered Quail Ridge Books yesterday.  Our local, yet nationally renowned, bookstore has a storied history in its own right.  In 2001, its longtime owner, Nancy Olson, was named national bookseller of the year by Publisher’s Weekly.  She had often graciously consented to visiting my classes over the years to talk about how “her little store” was able to routinely out hustle and out sell the boys in the big box stores. She looked like your grandmother and was a business genius. Nancy passed away in March of this year, and the store moved from its cosy quarters on Ridge Road to fancier digs in an upscale Mall. This was my first visit to the new location. I was skittish. 

Snugged under my arm was a copy of Color Me Chilled Out.  My objective was to snag somebody in purchasing and do my spiel to have them carry the book.  Color Me seems to be doing quite well online, Amazon runs out and orders more copies fairly consistently.  But my publisher seems to feel that marketing is, in this new digital age, primarily the author’s responsibility.  I glanced around, hoping to see Nancy’s ghost to offer me guidance - “Bob! How good to see you! What can I do for you?”  Sadly there were no spirits, spiritual or liquid, to ease the way.  I recognized many of the staff, but realized that they did not recognize me.  I felt a sudden compassion for my students who approach me smiling in recognition: "Hi Dr. Schrag!  I took your class two years ago!”  "Along with a couple thousand other folks," is the response from which I refrain. “Well, hello!” I say instead. 

The person at the counter is equally, but just a shade impersonally, polite: “Can I help you?” I tell her what I am after and she hustles off to return with a manager whom I do not recognize.  I make my pitch, and she smiles and asks if I have looked at the “instructions for authors” on their website.  “Of course,” I lie smoothly. “But I’ve always thought of Quail Ridge as ‘my bookstore’ so I thought I would bring a copy by.” I hand her an “author signed" copy. She smiles and says, “Well, I’ll get this into the right hands.” and scurries away. 

I skulk back into the mystery section. Peering about for any new offerings, hiding my Kindle under my coat as you hide your coffee from home when you pop in to steal some extra Splenda from Starbucks. A hand touches my arm. Busted! But, no, it is the manager. “Sir, we already carry this book,” she says, handing me back my "author signed" copy. “You’ll find it over in the adult coloring book section.” And off she goes. 

I feel light-headed. “Color Me Chilled Out” is on the shelf! It exists in the wilds of a brick and mortar book store! My brick-and-mortar bookstore! Without my even asking! Right there alongside literary giants! Maybe sharing bon motes with Billy Collins and Tennessee Williams. I casually make my way over towards my quarry. Careful not to startle it into flight. I pause before the coloring books. Apparently Dr Seuss’s estate has come out with a new coloring book - many copies. But, hey, that’s not bad company.  And then, there it is. And I hear Cousteau, “Here, gliding almost shyly among its glittering cousins of the reef, is the even more beautiful 'Color Me Chilled Out' .  .  ." 

Well, he might have said that .  .  .   

.

Changing Holiday Shopping

Calm

Peaceful

Serene

Not words we usually associate with holiday shopping, but

Color Me Chilled Out
can change that perception.

Color Me Chilled Out: Coloring Pages for Meditation and Relaxation by Robert Schrag is a coloring book for adults designed specifically to get us to those calm, peaceful and serene places in our mind that we associate with the holidays, but which seem to get driven out by the relentless commercialization that swiftly changes “Happy Holidays!” into “Bah! Humbug!”

Dr. Schrag has spent 40+ years teaching about visual and verbal messages in the Department of Communication at North Carolina State University.  But he has spent 60+ years doodling and coloring and writing poetry!  In his words:

“Doodling and coloring are visual poetry.  I am thrilled that adults are finally reclaiming these visual delights that we usually leave in the hands of children.  Their importance became even clearer to me while recovering from chemo and my stem cell transplants.  Coloring became an island of calm purpose in those otherwise trying times.”

Color Me Chilled Out is Dr. Schrag’s effort to share that “island of calm purpose” with us at all times, but particularly during these hectic holidays.  And apparently it is working. 

With nothing but word-of-mouth publicity, Color Me Chilled Out sold more than 7,000 copies during the first month it was available.  Among the reviews from the book’s pleased audience is this one from Amazon:

“Imagine Peter Max and M.C. Escher locked in a room and ordered to collaborate on 50 or so drawings. That's what you'll find here!”

You can purchase the book without ever seeing a parking garage. Simply search for Color Me Chilled Out at Amazon.com, BarnesandNoble.com, or also at the publisher’s site, northlightshop.com. Reviews are most welcome!

If you would like to encourage your local bookstore or art supply store to carry Color Me Chilled Out, have them call F&W Publishing customer service trade division at 1-800-289-0963.

A False Dichotomy

.

Halloween is looming. Orange and black is the new black. Strange creatures populate every commercial cranny. And people who are old enough to know better are asking themselves, “What will I be for Halloween?” I assume that come the 31st, the Undead will figure prominently in a variety of displays.  They are very hot media properties despite their questionable existence in the real world.

The history of Halloween gets spun differently depending on who is doing the spinning. A few minutes on the Internet can take you from Halloween as a time to place flowers on the graves of your ancestors to honor their memory, to Halloween as the time when the denizens of the underworld can clamber up into the “real world” and walk among us - often with evil intent. "Be afraid! Be very afraid!”  It is this latter view that favors the frolicking Undead. And, unfortunately, it is the one that intrudes upon my thoughts these days.

You see, public displays of fear have been troubling my university over the last week or so.  It started with a couple of overtly racist GroupMe posts between NC State students being captured with screen shots.  The captured posts went viral, necessitating a response by the Chancellor, resulting in a great deal of public angst throughout both town and gown.  As you know, if you have been attending to this blog over the last decade or so, racism stands in direct opposition to the four tenets of Distilled Harmony [www.distilledharmony.com], so there is no question that I find the content of the posts abhorrent.  However, having spent about 41 years teaching college, I am equally committed to the idea that college campuses are exactly the places where competing ideas must collide.  Popular speech, happy speech, conformist speech needs no protection.  It is unpopular speech, revisionist speech, minority speech, and yes, stupid speech, that needs protection. It is only in an environment that protects such speech that all ideas can be contested.

Other colleagues will argue that the posts are "hate speech" and hence give up their right to protected status.  I will leave that to the lawyers.  I will however suggest that what we often label hate speech isn’t really hate speech. It is fear speech. Let me explain.

The first tenet of Distilled Harmony is to Foster Harmony.  That demands that - in order to live a harmonic life - we must examine the existential tension between areas of harmony and areas of discord and subsequently champion harmony. E.g., kindness is harmonic, cruelty is discordant. Hence if we seek to live a harmonic life, to Foster Harmony in our existence, we need to privilege kindness over cruelty.  Hate speech would seem to privilege hate over love. But to cast love and hate as polar opposites misses, I think, the true areas of opposition.  The more accurate poles of opposition are love and fear.  Think about it for a moment.  If you have a “pocket of hate” hidden in your psyche somewhere, peek in there for a moment.

Do you really “hate” those people, or do you fear what your world will look like if “those people” and “their language,” “their religion,” “their culture,” whatever, come to dominate your day-to-day life?  Or do you fear them because “they” and “their language,” “their religion,” “their culture” whatever, already seem to dominate your day-to-day life? Regardless of which end of the telescope you look through, it is a tube of fear; and Internet trolling, bullying, hate speech and hate crimes are the behavioral manifestations of that deeper entity: fear.  

So how do we Foster Harmony in this particular arena? By addressing fear, which is the root cause of hate. And fear is itself usually the result of ignorance. Entities who peer at each other across a fence of fear are also separated by a gulf of ignorance.  As neither has ever truly lived life inside the other’s skin, each is largely clueless regarding the reality of the life lived by the other.  It is this confluence of ignorance and fear that drives hate.

There are policies, programs and courses that my institution has implemented to confront this nefarious confluence. There are those among my colleagues who say “Too little! Too late!”  To whom I respond, “So, go, do. If you do not wish to follow, then lead.”  Personally, I have come to the conclusion that while programs, policies and courses are worthy undertakings to confront the ignorance that drives fear, the route to finally defeat fear and hate is a personal path.  And, for me, that path is marked by the four road signs of Distilled Harmony: Foster Harmony, Enable Beauty, Distill Complexity and Oppose Harm.

So what am I going to be for Halloween? I dunno. Clowns are apparently out - victims of their "creepy" kin. Maybe we’ll just snuggle down in the basement and watch George C. Scott’s version of A Christmas Carol.  I thought I saw a wreath at the grocery store yesterday .  .  .   

.

Entanglement

.

Einstein, famously and disdainfully, declared quantum entanglement to be "spooky action at a distance,” and refused to accept the idea throughout his life. It is easy to understand his discomfort. Basically “entanglement" asserts that two entangled particles will demonstrate instantaneous reactions when only one of the pair is stimulated. Not a huge conceptual problem if the particles happen to live close to one another. But entanglement further asserts that distance is irrelevant, that entangled particles can be light years apart and will still demonstrate these instantaneous and simultaneous reactions when either one of the particles is stimulated.

Suddenly some fundamental beliefs about the nature of the universe get trashed like the leftovers at a demolition derby. Primary among the wrecks is the idea that nothing can exceed the speed of light. Yet, if two particles separated by light years can react simultaneously and instantaneously to a stimulus applied to only one particle, some type of information passed between the particles at a speed that makes the old speed of light seem positively pedestrian.

I suppose that should surprise us, but then again we need to remember that some 94% of the universe remains invisible to us. Hence, our ideas of “normal” come from often fuzzy observations of the 5 or 6% of “reality” that we can see. So the idea that such linked, instantaneous, communication might be commonplace in the wider “dark” universe becomes plausible and intriguing, to say the least. Among the related questions that occur to me are:

Is there a particle that is the enactor of entanglement? A “tangletron?" Or a field consisting of some kind of tangling bosons that enables instantaneous communication throughout the universe? And if it is there, why is it there and what manner of communication does it enable? And then the one that most fascinates me: Do we already participate in entangled experiences without realizing the mechanism? 

Consider this:

It is not uncommon for partners in the first bloom of a romantic relationship to assert that they were lovers in a former life, that they are soulmates, etc., etc.  While such declarations may well crash and burn in the long run, there is no denying the power of the initial attraction, nor the mysterious power that sustains some relationships for a lifetime.  Listen to any love song, read Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116 - the “love is not love” one. We are seemingly in love with love. Underlying Distilled Harmony [www.distilledharmony.com] is the idea that harmony is the natural state of existence, that there is a universal harmony, "The God Chord,” -  that I discussed in my book by the same name.  There is a universal chord, a transcendent state to which we can all aspire and eventually obtain. Perhaps romantic love is among the most common human manifestations of an entangled interaction with the God Chord. Being able to somehow sense the location or presence of the other, being able to predict the behavior of the other, finishing each other’s sentences. Might these not be evidence of entangled interactions?

And, to return briefly to the recent posts on expressionist memory, it seems to me quite feasible that the palette of expressionist memories is drawn from various entangled interactions - from those strong notes in our own chord that are entangled with the notes of universal harmony.  Which also addresses the expressionist memory notion of discarding the negative components of memories while retaining and nurturing the harmonic portions of the same experiences.  We retain harmony, we discard discord.

I am further inclined to consider that this “spooky action at a distance” touches all experience, not only human interactions. Art, music, nature, science, philosophy, physical activity - all these fields have language that points to these indescribable moments of perceived harmony: In the zone. In the groove. Feeling it. And, yes, transcendent.  We arrive somewhere we have never been before and feel “at home.” We listen to a piece of music and lose touch with our immediate surroundings, returning only when the music stops and we find ourselves deposited back in a more mundane “reality.” Standing before a painting we are transported to the world within the frame.

There are certainly more prosaic explanations for these phenomena. More pragmatic explanations drawn from our direct experiences in that small portion of the universe we can most easily observe. I would suggest, however, allowing ourselves to consider that entangled experience may be the universal norm beyond our little bubble of light, and that that norm - entanglement - moves easily, if invisibly, around and through us, weaving wonderful ties to the rest of existence.

We need to leave ourselves open to these entanglements - with individuals, with art, with science, with music and with nature; for it is through these entanglements that we blend the notes of our own chord with the notes of The God Chord.

.

Kites of Darkness

.

A coronet of consciousness 

Circles the two o'clock hour. 

Born aloft by kites of darkness  

Drifting on a tether between  

Sunset and first dawn. 

Impervious to the hours past 

Since slumber's onset 

Or morning's impending obligations. 

Driven perhaps by blinking numerals 

It nudges my eyelids open 

And requires an auditory sweep 

Of the immediate environs. 

Born more of curiosity than concern, 

It resolves the darker pools of shadow  

And blinking points of light 

Into the expected dips and edges 

Of what should surround me. 

And sleep becomes an option. 

Unless the wail of a train 

Or the drumming of rain 

Demands further attention. 

.

A Short[er] Footnote on Expressionist Memory

.

I know, I know - “Surely he has beaten this idea to death!”  But not quite.

It strikes me that I might have left you with the idea that expressionist memory is a naturally occurring phenomenon.  That is only partially true.  Memory is a naturally occurring phenomenon - expressionist memory requires some work on our part.  In this way it is similar to lucid dreaming. Dreaming seems to be a naturally occurring phenomenon - normally, we dream whether we choose to dream or not. Lucid dreaming builds on that phenomenon. Wikipedia asserts that "A lucid dream is any dream during which the dreamer is aware that they are dreaming. During lucid dreaming, the dreamer may be able to exert some degree of control over the dream characters, narrative, and environment.” [http://bit.ly/2bKt37K].  We also exert a degree of control in the construction of expressionist memories. 

Expressionist memories are central to our construction of the beliefs that define reality. Hence they need to be consistent with our beliefs regarding the nature of existence. For me, that means my expressionist memories must be consistent with the four basic tenets of Distilled Harmony [www.distilledharmony.com]: Foster Harmony, Enable Beauty, Distill Complexity, and Oppose Harm.  So my expressionist memories form in part by discarding those portions of hyperthymesiatic recall that are conflict with those tenets of Distilled Harmony. 

Yes, I realize that implies an intentional distortion of “the reality experienced.” But what kind of memory doesn’t do that? Yes, hyperthymesiatic memory that traps one in a freeze frame high definition of what “really” happened. And is also often seen as an abnormal characteristic, if not a condition bordering on a disease.  More normal memories fade over time, leaving the peaks and valleys. In constructing intentional expressionist memories I seek to hold to the peaks, discarding the valleys.

But here is an important distinction - I said discarding the valleys, not repressing them.  John’s [14:2] assertion that we live in a reality with many mansions, is only one of many admissions across belief systems, philosophies and scientific schemes that asserts that we are inclined to compartmentalize our lives. One of the drawings in my coloring book [http://amzn.to/2bQdhFw] started out as a sort of Route 66 old motel, but then got hijacked by a herd of rogue eggplants. OK, strange, but the idea of bits of life poised behind many different doors remains: 

That complexity is just fine - it is what makes us human, interesting, complex.  But if we repress the valleys of recalled experiences, we are merely hiding them away in a room we ignore. They can fester there, eventually rotting the foundations of our reality to such an extent that the whole thing can come crashing down around our ears, landing us in a padded room, or on a very expensive couch in a office with potted plants and soft music.

Discarding is a conscious act of elimination.  It is not so much a “Get away! Get away! Get in that room!” Slam. Now I walk away leaving you locked up in there” scenario, as it is a “Been there, done that. Let me show you the door. Good byeeeeeeeeee!” kind of thing.

To go back to the expressionist painting analogy - which is after all, where I stole the whole idea of expressionist memory - expressionist memories are the palettes from which we paint our lives. We choose the dominant hues of that composition.  I choose calm and pleasing colors.

.

Expressive Memory, Transcendence, Dark Matter and All That Jazz

Over on Distilled Harmony [www.distilledharmony.com] I assert that “ever since I was a small child I have been forever ambushed by moments of pure harmony.” I do not mean to imply that I exist in a constant harmonic state - would that it were so!  Rather, those moments of pure harmony have always been transient impressions  - like a moment of extended slow motion. 

When I was younger my reaction was often “Whew! That was weird! Cool, but weird.”  I recall one such harmonic moment when I was was 17 or 18, working at a treatment center for emotionally disturbed children up in Philo, California.  My participation was through an American Friends Service Committee summer program, so every morning we “Friendlies,” as we were known, would have a “few moments of silence.” One morning we hiked up the creek a short ways for our moment of silence.  It was warm but not hot. The sun was bright, dancing off the small rapids that ran around the rocks where we had perched.  And then a soft transition; sight, sound, air on my skin, and mist. Pure harmony, intense and extended.  

At some point the “adult leaders” stood to indicate it was time to start the day, and everyone else moved on back downstream. I don’t know how long I remained behind.  It couldn’t have been too long, because I had no trouble catching up. But when I tried to engage the others in conversation about the magical moment, blank if not suspicious stares were the response.  Well, we were in constant contact with “emotionally disturbed children.” In retrospect I can’t blame my fellow friendlies for being a bit put off by my babbling.

As I grew older I learned to discuss these harmonic moments in less weird and more mainstream terms - art and the intellect.  But when I nudged past the half-century mark, I began to consider the notion that these moments of harmony, of “rightness” if you will, were not aberrations. Rather they were moments when the “me of the moment” coincided with the “me I am supposed to me.” They were transcendent moments. That, I have decided, is what I mean by moments of pure harmony. It now strikes me that, for a variety of reasons, art is inclined to seek out and attempts to capture, such transcendent moments.

It is a daunting task. Even photography, that can freeze a moment, freezes but that single moment, carving it away from the greater gestalt that contained the moment.  In "Ansel Adams: Photographer."  Adams makes a significant distinction between "scenic moments" and "artistic photography.”  As Adams had been trained as a concert pianist, some of his friends were taken aback by his decision to turn to photography full-time. “Ansel,” they opined, “a photograph cannot express the depth of the human soul.” 

“Perhaps not,” he replied. “But maybe a photographer can."

Adams realized that photography, even contemporary ultra high-speed photography, or the staggering images beamed back from the Hubble Telescope and it’s high tech kin, are not push button portals to a transcendent moment - to pure harmony.  It is different from that.  And, yes, the phrase “more complicated than that” did spring to mind for that last sentence.  But capturing a transcendent moment is not more complicated than the layers upon layers of science and engineering that are necessary to operate the Hubble. But transcendent moments are however quite different.

As I said before, I had always been aware of “ being in a harmonic moment” although I had not yet defined them as such. But it wasn't until sometime around my 50th birthday that I began to explore ways to make them stay a little longer.  I tried to put myself in that “extended slow motion.” Breath lightly and slowly. Don’t focus intensely on anything, but try to remain aware of everything.  Light, slow, open.  And then when it was gone, smile.  It would be nice to be able to remain permanently “in the moment,” and I do not dismiss, out of hand, claims of very extended harmonic states - they just seem to be beyond me at the moment.  So I try to “save the memory.” And this is where the notion of memory begins to dominate.

Often, as we seek our own path to transcendence, to recognize and perhaps give form to a transcendent moment, we turn to memory.  I suppose that this is because transcendent moments neither arrive from, nor float off to, some mysterious, alien realm. Quite the contrary actually. Transcendent moments are those moments when our chord sounds most clearly. The path to more extended transcendence lies in recognizing those moments and discerning their common elements.  It is, however, important to realize that we will discover the transcendent moment not in the memories whose details we grasp most clearly, but rather in those memories that resonate most strongly with our unique chord. The specific "internal movie" may be fleeting, unclear, even confusing as a solitary entity - as in “What happened back there? When we were all sitting on those rocks by the creek?"

The important distinction is between recall and memory. Recall is factual. Extreme recall is out there on the spectrum, as in hyperthymesia. Wikipedia tells us that "hyperthymesia is the condition of possessing an extremely detailed autobiographical memory. Hyperthymestics remember an abnormally vast number of their life experiences.”  Facebook, Twitter and other social media encourage a kind of artificial hyperthymesia as they encourage users to dutifully note the trivia of their lives.  That is not to say that highly significant moments are ignored, but they do run the risk of being overwhelmed by restaurant menus, momentary observations, celebrity spotting and images of a friend’s friend’s friend’s child’s cat.

  

I think we often err in attempting to engage seniors in issues of recall. Far more fruitful, for them and for our understanding of them, might be discussions of memory - particularly, expressionist memory.  Recall seeks a reconstruction of "what happened," and "what happened" often has little to do with what an event or series of events came to mean to an individual. I would assert that a far more important type of memory is what I call “expressionist memory.” 

I use "expressionist memory" to define a cognitive unit, a belief, a meaning-making entity that coalesces over time as a result of related recollections. Portions of those conceptually-related recollections are the palette from which we paint or construct the more powerful, selective "expressionist memory" that becomes the "reality" that supersedes the hyperthymesial recollections.

OK, it is obviously time for an example.  You are walking down the street, and you pass by a couple of kids sitting on either side of a big cardboard box. You look into the box. Puppies! Cute, wiggly, soft, warm, unconditionally loving, cuddly puppies. If your “expressionist memory” of all those positive parts of “puppy-ness,” overwhelms the more pragmatic hyperthymesiatic recalling of soiled carpets and spoiled sleep, midnight walks and veterinary bills; you may find yourself the somewhat surprised new owner of a little "wiggler." 

This fairly simplistic example should not detract from the powerful role that expressive memory plays in the important decisions of our lives, and its central place in our construction of reality. Expressive memory is a path to the existential objective of Distilled Harmony, which is to bring your own chord into harmony with the universal chord - the ultimate music of the spheres, if you will. Consider the image of a mystic, seated in repose, eyes closed or focused on something we cannot see. There is no movement.  “Ooomm, ooomm.” It is a common theme in Western storytelling.  We even married it to the traditional American western in the 1972 TV show, Kung Fu. It is from distorted depictions such as this that we create the misconception that transcendence is somehow passive, an empty stillness.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Transcendence is an act of creative transformation. It is a blending of the notes of the self with the song of the universe. Transcendence manifests one's chord.  I must, however, admit to a teensy, weensy little problem: I am not sure how one does that consistently. If I did maybe I wouldn’t be here pecking, two-, three-, sometimes even four-fingered at the keyboard. Or maybe that is part of the process, and I do have some thoughts about the process.

I am pretty convinced that personal transcendence is closely linked to using expressive memory to define our harmonic self, the person we would most like to become. And further, to become that person we need to consciously construct those pieces of expressive memory that define our most harmonic self.

Descriptions may work better than definitions here:

Tranquility and Harmony. I think that the iconic "rocks in the stream" moment provided some hues to the palette from which I construct my expressive memory of harmonic tranquility. For me harmonic tranquility carries a "rightness with nature" component. A cabin in the pines at Tower Hill Camp, close by the shores of Lake Michigan. Summer breezes passing through the screened in porch of my childhood home. The moon painting a path on the Manistee River, as I paddled with a cohort of companions through Michigan forests. A cold midnight surround of stars during a youthful ski trip in the Austrian Alps. 

These moments obviously describe highly personal recollections scattered across many decades. And my internal movies of the events may take extreme liberties with any hyperthymesial documentaries that could have captured the scenes from a more objective perspective. Which is of little or no importance, as expressive memory trumps hyperthymesial recollections every time. Expressive memory does far more than reconstruct the past, it provides a transcendent path into the future.

That path is paved with the cobblestones of expressive memory: Tranquility and Harmony, Love, Honor, Success, Truth, Beauty. And each cobblestone is an intensely personal construction fashioned by the life we have lived, the moments we have experienced. I have been thinking more about the process through which we construct these cobblestones and an intriguing analogy sprang to mind.  The Large Hadron Collider.  No, really. Hang with me for a moment.

As I understand it, the LHC smashes atomic particles into one another at speeds approaching the speed of light.  It is in the aftermath of the collisions, in the residue, that new or deeper meaning is revealed - like the Higgs Boson. A major objective of all this science, personnel, and treasure is to discover the nature of dark matter. 

Dark matter is one of those things so far beyond our ordinary experience that, most often, we choose not to think about it.  But let’s think about it for just a moment. Richard Panek points out in his nifty book The Four Percent Universe: Dark Matter, Dark Energy and the Race to Discover the Rest of Reality that everything we can see of the universe is only 4% of all that is out there beyond our standard methods of observation and perception. So modern science - and particularly the guys and dolls of CERN and the LHC - seeks to ferret out the deeper nature of reality, the form and void of the universe if you will, by examining the tantalizing residue of particle collisions in an attempt to glean what visible matter can tell us about invisible matter.

OK. Let us make “recall” visible matter - the Facebook Timeline/hyperthymesial recalled particles rushing around in the LHC of our minds. Ten-year old truth collides with 35 year-old truth, 18-year old beauty crashes into 50-year old beauty, 40-year old honor smashes into 75-year old honor as they all glance off of various versions of tranquility and harmony. Expressive memory springs to light and life in the collective residue of those collisions. Expressive memory constructs the deeper nature of our reality, fills in the form and void of our personal existence, makes visible and cohesive that reality which previously was invisible and disjointed.

I now have two options. I can try to con a grad student into inserting some footnotes into this incredibly long post and try to find a journal that might consider publishing it, or I can just stop and send it out to you in the hopes that some of you will tough it out from beginning to end and find it interesting, perhaps even enjoyable 😃!

.

A Dangling Conversation About Chuck Close and An Exploration of the Self

.

It all started when my wife sent me a link to a July 13th essay by Wil S. Hylton in the New York Time. The essay is titled The Mysterious Metamorphosis of Chuck Close - an artist whose work I hadn't really encountered before.  I loved the essay for a couple of reasons.  First, Mr. Hylton is an obvious devotee of long-form writing. And second, he uses all those words to paint an utterly fascinating portrait of an immensely talented and, apparently, equally conflicted portrait artist.  So, to fully play along with this conversation you should read that essay: http://nyti.ms/29EJ2ST

It might actually be best to read that essay and then take a break to mull it over a bit. As I say, Wil is a long-form kind of guy.  So after I had mulled it over for awhile, I sent it along to Ken Zagacki, my friend, colleague and Department Head here at State with whom I delight in musing about things artistic.  With his permission I’ll share his response:

"I like the theory, posed by the author, about Close's fractured identity as he ages and especially as both his mind and body wither. More specifically, on the one hand the brightly colored ("lurid?") self portraits affirm life at the end; on the other hand the somewhat faded color of "Self-Portrait (No Glasses)," with eyes peering from the background darkness, depict the artist slipping into oblivion.

You're an artist: What do you think?"  

So I thought about that for awhile, and made this contribution to the conversation:

If I am experiencing any type of artistic experience that parallels Close's portraiture, it seems to manifest itself more in my writing than in my images. Close has been a painter all his life, hence his artistic/philosophical/spiritual evolution is perhaps best revealed in his painting.  While I taught photography and television production for a number of years early in my career, my own interest in drawing, etc., - actually putting my hand to paper - is relatively new, maybe 10 or a dozen years. [See www.colormechilledout.com] So as a newbie, my efforts in that arena are relatively unsophisticated. However, I have been playing with poetry, juvenile novels, essays, short stories, scholarly articles and textbooks for almost 60 years.  So words, more than images, may better capture my own evolution. 

That being said, what resonates most with me in this story is Close's seeming desire to explore "that which he does not understand."  I suppose that as a teacher and an academician, I tend to try to give the impression that I understand what I am talking about - and in the classroom, anyhow, I usually do.  These days, however, I am far more interested, as Close seems to be, in that which I do not understand. Hence my more meaningful writing on this blog springs most often from what seems to be a shadow of a truth tethered rather tenuously to that which I think I know or believe. Close now chops his self-portraits into grids, and then seems to explore how the self being represented shifts as he fills in the various squares. For me the verbal parallel is a process of weaving of exploratory sentences around that initial shadow of truth; a process that allows me to better understand my represented self. Sometimes that results in some type of progressive understanding of life and existence, other times it simply shifts the direction of subsequent inquiries. 

From that perspective, my essays here are parallels to Close's self-portraits, in that they are verbal snapshots; progressive written explorations of that with which we are in continual contact, that which we pretend to understand, but which, in reality, is the shrouded subject of continual exploration - the self.

And yes, there is an increased intensity of focus that comes with age, illness, and an increased awareness of mortality.

And that is what I think, at the moment anyhow .  .  . 

.

Retiring in Garlic or Clover

.
"And so what do you do?" 

Conversation allowing, this question follows swiftly upon most introductions. That is unless the answer has been supplied in the introduction as in: "This is my friend, Delilah. She is an agent with the CIA."

What someone does for a living seems to create a cultural niche which allows us hang a lot of assumptions on them.  Level of education, intelligence, status, income, even religious or political affiliation; all these we often infer from one's occupation.

There are a couple of reasons why these inferences may have outlived whatever tentative legitimacy they once possessed. First, the retirement speech that begins "Looking back over my 30 years here at Maxoworks . . . " is swiftly becoming a thing of the past. Someone beginning their "life's work” today, in the early years of the 21st century, can expect to have 5, 10, maybe even a dozen different jobs during their careers. So the response "I'm a graphic artist with Pixar," is most likely temporary and incomplete. The current "artist" may end up, a few years down the road, wearing a suit in the board meeting of a multinational corporation, selling sketches on the street in Paris, or creating flame resistant textiles for NASA. 

"So what do you do?" suddenly becomes more complicated.

But while multiple occupations are one complicating factor in the “what do you do” game, "no occupation” can be equally perplexing. The issue is not so much the unemployed, as it is the retired. The unemployed can define themselves as being "between jobs at the moment," or as "reassessing their options." Our culture is OK with that. It is seen as a pause between identities. But being "retired" is a life space we have never really fully defined.  In the days before vaccines, antibiotics, microsurgery and the insurance programs to pay for them, retirement was a brief span of years after your "work life" before you died. However, my father lived 30 years after retiring at age 70. This extended retirement seems to be an increasing trend in the industrialized world.

More and more we seem to be facing retirement with tolerable economic and physical reserves. But I wonder if we are emotionally ready for it? There is a certain smugness in the responses that the newly retired bring to the question "So what do you do?" "Nothing!" they smirk. "I'm retired!” I’ve even seen T-shirts to that effect.

It is a perspective that seems to work for awhile. Still, I remember, in the days before “digitized" bedrooms, when "Go to your room!" was a punishment. When “doin' nothing" was a banishment from human society; an acknowledgement that to do nothing was to be nothing.  And this is the existential crisis that needs attention when the bloom fades from the "Doin' Nothing!" retirement rose.

I have noticed that AARP has been running commercials that focus on retirement as a "new beginning."  That is certainly a step in the right direction, but I still worry about a kind of whiplash as we move from a profession designed to enhance income and reputation, to a life experience that provides an opportunity to explore the maturation of the self. The problem is that, in all honesty, most of us spend our lives trying to succeed at “a job," which may or may not have a great deal to do with the oracle's admonition to "know thyself." This unfortunate path leads to, upon retirement, our sharing our skin with a stranger.

I have a couple of suggestions as to how we might slip into that skin a bit more easily. In the interest of full disclosure, while quite eligible, I have not yet retired, and have been in the same job, teaching, for almost 45 years, 35 at the same university.  Still my unique situation has given me some experience with my first major suggestion: Practice retiring.

By “practice retiring” I don’t mean calling in sick and going to the movies - that is the “Doin’ Nothing!” phase and needs, it seems, no practice. Rather, I mean practice doing things differently than in your previous experiences.  As I mentioned, today's young job seekers will have this "opportunity" thrust upon them as they negotiate the swiftly evolving job market.  I have been fortunate to teach what used to be called Radio-TV-Film.  As a result I have had to move through various incarnations of that world.  “Image production and distribution” has moved from developing film in a darkroom with batches of distinctly aromatic chemicals, and then cutting the processed film with razor blades and gluing the ends together to make a “whole thing”;  to a new world of pushing buttons on a flat piece of glass called a smartphone or tablet to achieve the same results. The message analysis side of the discipline has fragmented into a variety of areas ranging from incredibly sophisticated algorithm-driven marketing to the equally sophisticated albeit well-nigh impenetrable ramblings of French philosophers from the last century.  The point is that every few years the latest and greatest new technology or critical perspective would raise its head and we would scurry around trying to imagine the world from that new perspective.  That is very similar to what I mean by "practicing retiring.”

Practicing retiring means practicing seeing the world from new perspectives and imaging what in that world might be fun and engaging. It means letting those new perspectives lead you to newly enriched lives.  Most recently, and perhaps furthest removed from my professional training, I have become a professional author of coloring books for adults. [http://www.colormechilledout.com].  The experience literally has me looking at the world differently. My professional background in photography and television had me looking at the world through the eyes of a realist - how does one capture the reality before the lens most honestly?  When you are in coloring book mode, you see the world as broken up into spaces to be colored. It is an experience not unlike those refracting glasses that were popular back in the psychedelic 1960s, but without the munchies.  So rather than creating images that duplicate reality, I attempt to create images that allow others to reinterpret an imagined reality. Practicing retiring is a similar process as we practice seeing the world through new eyes, eyes beyond the blinders of our old “real jobs."

Second suggestion - and perhaps most important: Let the trivial remain trivial.  A couple of weeks ago I saw a couple - seemingly of retirement age - nearly come to blows over whether it was better to get loose garlic heads or those already packaged in boxes of three. The debate seemed to revolve around the benefit of testing the individual heads for firmness, or supporting the notion of the consistency of quality one could assume from mechanical sorting, processing and packing.  I fear it would have been worth my life to step between them and assert “You realize these are only heads of garlic, right?”  The sad truth may be that in the diminished world of their retirement, garlic heads might actually seem that important.  

That is not to say that garlic heads are necessarily unimportant.  When we cook a standing rib roast we insert peeled garlic cloves into slots that have been carved into the meat. Yummy! So, in that instance, the quality of the garlic used in the recipe is important - but not important enough to fight about in a grocery store! It is not an important enough issue over which to raise your voice.  It is, in almost every rational assessment of life, trivial.

Bottom line: if you hear someone - particularly in a public place - raising an argumentative voice - and if, to your embarrassment, you realize that the voice is yours, stop it. First, there is a public nuisance issue here. Think of all those times in restaurants or at symphonies when you asked your partner, or yourself. “Can’t they make that kid shut up?” When “the kid” is you, shut up, or take yourself out to the car until you calm down.

But more importantly there is an existential garlic issue involved here. Before proceeding with a “loose versus packaged” type of harangue I need to ask myself a couple of questions. First, is this my battle? Or even my concern?  Or am I "helping" someone else see the light, by giving them the "benefit" of my insight? Rarely do people actually want that type of assistance, and on those infrequent occasions they will ask for your help. Wait for it.

Secondly, just how trivial is this issue? How important is this garlic moment in the grand scheme of things? And what does my angry passion about these particular garlic heads say about the state of my life?  There is, of course, the chance that I will proceed, certain in my conviction that the relative merits of garlic heads warrant my untoward and boorish behavior.  But at least I will have given harmony a chance.

And it does all come back to Foster Harmony.  Retirement is, by definition, the rest of our life.  We are learning that we need not fill it with “Doin’ Nothing!” We can fill it with a variety of activities that enrich our lives day by day, that make us wiser, happier and more fulfilled.  There will also be heads of garlic.  Let us remember which is worth arguing about.
.