Travels in Alternia

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I am often unaware of making the trip.  But suddenly I am back again, standing in the kitchen, wondering what brought me here.  Other times I will be deeply engrossed in the trying task of finding exactly the right word to express a subtle perception hiding just around a bend in my mind, when the beep of a horn or a knock on the door returns me to my chair, disoriented, dislocated, disassociated.  I would be more concerned were this a phenomenon of recent inception, but I cannot remember a time when it was not part of my life: "Robby, are you listening to me?  Robby, I have asked you three times now to let the dog in.  I swear that boy .  .  .  ."

Still, it would be foolish to deny that moving into my seventh decade here on planet Earth has not focused my attention more closely on the phenomenon.  Can it really be creeping senility, dementia, or Alzheimer's if I have done it all my life?  And am I really doing it more often, or do advancing years simply make us paranoid about these flights of reflective fancy as "that boy" has somehow become "the old guy."

There was a family reunion in South Dakota last April.  My father, who will be 98 in June, could not make the trip.  But we took videos of recent conversations with him to the reunion via my tablet computer.  They were such a hit that we showed them to him when we returned to Chicago.  However, watching himself on the screen seemed more confusing than entertaining. It wasn't that he didn't grasp that we had taped the conversation, it just seemed, perhaps, irrelevant.  In that moment of his disorientation, I saw myself struggling to return to "everyday" when I had been "away."

I think that was when I first began to play - more consciously anyhow - with the question of what I have come to think of as "travels in Alternia." Is there, I wondered, another space/reality where we venture when we lose contact with everyday reality?  It must certainly be something considered by those whose loved ones get lost behind the tragic curtain of Alzheimer's; that hope that they are "somewhere else" and are "all right."  That is part of the conversation.  But is it merely a protective fancy to conjecture that senility in this realm of consciousness may not mandate universal senility?  More positively, can we posit an actual realm that is home to dreaming, and creativity - and my daily flights of walkabout?  "Well, perhaps," you say, "But another 'reality'"?  Stranger things are dreamt of.

We have learned only recently that 96% of the universe is made up of energy and matter that lies beyond our perceptual abilities and imaging technologies.  That which we can see - what we believed to constitute the entire universe, all of heaven and earth - is actually only 4% of what is "out there."  We have been the drunk in the old joke:

Late one night, a police officer happens upon an obviously inebriated gentleman on his hands and knees, creeping studiously about beneath a streetlight.

     "Sir, is there a problem?" enquires the officer.

     "Most certainly," replies the gentleman. "I have dropped my keys."

      The officer looks carefully around. There is obviously nothing on the ground.

     "Where did you drop them, sir?"

      The drunk gestures towards the dark shadows over his shoulder, "Back there."

     "Then why are you looking over here?"

     "The light is better here."

We look for explanations where they are most easily seen.  We have defined reality based on what falls within the glow of immediate lamplight. In doing so we seem to have missed 96% of the universe.  Perhaps we have made a similar error as we explore human consciousness.  Consider the notion of "cloaked consciousness."  [I think "dark matter" and "dark energy" are unfortunate choices to name the other 96% of the universe, the part that lies outside the comforting circle of our lamppost. Too much Darth Vader in those monikers.] I borrow "cloaked consciousness" from Rowling's world of Harry Potter.  Harry's invisibility cloak makes him invisible in one world, but in no way reduces the totality of his "presence in reality." "Cloaked consciousness" is how I conceive of the home to those experiences that leave no footprints here beneath the lamp, "cloaked consciousness" is the home to dreaming, and creativity and walkabout.  It is Alternia.

In Alternia, one lives unencumbered by the frailties of the awakened world. One leaps and creates and seeks truth differently. In Alternia one does not hear voices, it is not delusion. Rather one senses silent and affirming audiences who share your interest, and that interest propels you on.  Alternia remains invisible until we recreate its insights on this side of the curtain. Does that make one place illusion and another truth?  I doubt it.  But belief does not reality make.  How long did we point our telescopes into the heavens before the analysis of the data revealed that something - something huge - was missing?

I do not know where we may find acceptable evidence for Alternia.  But I do know that is isn't here, beneath the same old streetlight. Perhaps it is time we looked elsewhere.
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Finding Your Fulcrum

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I usually hate it when the right words are already taken, but this time it may have been helpful.  It started when I stopped listening to music while doing my evening Reike.  You see, for the last 30 years or so I have done the same ritual every night before I go to sleep. It is a truncated Reike session that helps me relax and ease into sleep.  Until a week or so ago I would perform the ritual - which involves placing my hands on my head and slowing my breath - while listening to music.  A form of meditation, if you will.

Interestingly, I had noticed that there were times when the music seemed to run counter to relaxation.  You see, you are supposed to shift your hand position every three minutes, and it seemed that knowing where I was in the music would make me impatient to get relaxed - and yes, I realize how oxymoronic that is.  Anyhow, we have one of those “nature sound” generator things by the bed.  It will do rain, surf, wind, summer night, etc., etc.  We often run it at night and so I started just doing my Reike/relaxation/meditation to “summer night.”  It seemed to work quite well, which, naturally, got me thinking.

Thunderstorms, real ones with rain and wind and all that are incredibly somniferous events for me.  Love that word, "somniferous," sleep-inducing; the word itself is somniferous, I’m yawning here typing it.  But again, I digress.  Thunderstorms put me to sleep.  But then I thought about it a bit more.  They don’t actually put me to sleep – they relax me so completely that sleep often follows, but not always.  Same with crickets at night, some music, and, when I was young, the murmur of my parents voices drifting in my window screen as they talked out on the porch.  Some sounds seem to transport me to specific and utterly tranquil places.  The whole storm thing whisks me away to a lake I do not recognize from my “real” life, but is as familiar to me as any place I have ever been:

It is a Northern lake, similar to, but not specifically from, places I have visited in Northern Michigan and Wisconsin.  There is a boathouse rocking between two flanking docks, fragile yet unquestionable in its security from the wind and rain.  I am in a hammock, gently rocked, but not chilled, by the cool breeze. I know it is not real because there are no mosquitoes.  Still, I am quite content to rest wrapped in serene “somniferousness.”

Certain smells – lilac for example, no, not lavender, lilac – does the same thing.  Comfort foods are comfort foods because they, too, bring comfort and that feeling of somniferous well-being.

There is obviously a chord theory/universal resonance issue going on here.  After all, if it is a theory of everything, it has to be a theory of everything.  So, Chordman, how do you explain these seemingly spontaneous onsets of somniferous well-being?  I’m glad you asked.

This is, however, where I began to run into the problem of the right words having already been hijacked.  The thought that originally came to me was that this phenomenon was a wormhole notion.  Wormholes are tunnels through spacetime that allow for nigh unto instantaneous movement across light years of distance.  Spontaneous onsets of somniferous well-being could be similar shortcuts to harmony.  One cuts through lengthy sessions of meditation, reflection, etc., and moves directly to a centered sense of well-being.  Hence, these paths transcend the normal spiritual pathways to enlightenment – they are transcendent.  So I originally thought to call them “transcendors.”  Unfortunately I run into a lot of semantic issues if I follow that path because this is precisely where most of the words have been claimed by other “theories of everything.”  Transcendent, transcendental, transformative, -- all are the “property” of some other worldview.  So even if I could lay claim to transcendors, it would probably seed more confusion than clarity.

I was also having problems with the word “wormhole,” I just don’t like it.  I know, I know – beyond trivial.  But universal harmony asserts that the “thing” is a complete totality – the painting is the wood, the canvas, the paint and the varnish, in addition to the thoughts, emotions and the brushstrokes of the artist.  The map is a real component of the territory, the word is an important aspect of the thing.  So the word “wormhole” had to fit the phenomenon being expressed, and it didn’t.  “Holy Dune, Batman!  Would you look at the size of that wormhole!”  I just couldn’t go there.  So potential confusion in the transcendent camp and a trivial sense of discord with the word wormhole sent me poking around for better discourse to explain the phenomenon in question.  Here’s what I came up with.

A wormhole asserts a movement from one point in space-time to another.  The different locales in the universe, particularly when observed from points removed from the wormhole, lie at great distance from one another.  However, universal harmony asserts that the universe is a single harmonic whole, so it follows that discord is resolved by shifting perspective, not location.  Harmony, if you will, is in the mind of the beholder and is not dependent upon the location of the observer in the cosmos.  Hence, moments of somniferous well-being are functions of perspective, not location.  I need not scour the ends of the earth to find the lake of harmony whose shores welcome me each night, it is always there in my head.

So the various triggers of somniferous well-being do not, wormhole-like, take me anywhere. Rather, they alter my perception of the space I currently occupy. They enable and affirm my recognition of the harmonic universe that surrounds me.  They provide balance.  And, ah ha, that calls forth another concept.  When we think about Archimedes and his lever to move the earth, we do tend to get overwhelmed by the lever.  That is understandable, the scale of the thing would be awesome.  We think less about the fulcrum.  Yet, obviously, without the fulcrum, a lever – no matter how long - is just a board.  It is the fulcrum that enables balance.  Shades of playgrounds past; the yelling softens as light mellows through recess dust. Then, carefully, there is neither teeter nor totter, set the table; there is balance, there is harmony.

So, I have come to this – the thunderstorm, the lilacs, the crickets, some music, and maybe grilled cheese sandwiches – these are my existential fulcra.  They balance my life, they shift my perspective in ways that allow me to simply “be” there in the midst of harmony; calm, balanced and relaxed.  How did Simon and Garfunkel put it?  “All dappled and drowsy and ready to sleep.”  Furthermore, to the extent that constructed representations of those fulcra are accurate; the sounds in the “sleep machine” or lilac candles or infusers, they too can become fulcra, balancing and relaxing, affirming harmony.
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Mural Musing #4

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It has been while since I last attempted to recount for you the progress on the mural.  My excuse for neglecting the blog was initially a legitimate one – the holidays and all that.  Christmas here in Raleigh, then a delightful trip to Ocracoke Island to share New Year’s with dear friends and their family.  And I will cling to at least a portion of that prevarication.  But in truth, the larger issue is that I have been more than a little overwhelmed by it all.  Three seemingly unrelated narratives wind through my current reflections.  Let me share them with you and then try to explain how they are related.

First, is an iconic rural story about the farm boy whose favorite heifer finally gives birth to her first calf.  However, as is often the case in these situations, the little one is sickly, and the first-time mother less-than-adept.  Well, the lad bottle feeds the tike and takes to carrying the little critter around with him, so he can keep an eye on her.  She’s just a mite of a thing and he is strong.  And so it goes for weeks.  Come autumn, the neighbors are amazed to see the lad casually moving about the farm while carrying a strapping, yearling shorthorn cow across his shoulders.

Second is the story of a colleague of mine who is an excellent golfer.  I remember asking him if he had ever considered chasing the PGA star.  He admitted that he had, until he had chanced, while in college, to play a round with a classmate who actually went on to play rather successfully on the tour for a number of years after graduation.  During those few hours my colleague became painfully aware of the incredible gap between his best efforts and those of his friend, the future pro.

Finally, there is the well-known tale of Michelangelo and the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.  Michelangelo considered himself a sculptor who occasionally did some painting.  Pope Julius II saw him as the painter best suited to adorn the ceiling of PJ’s home church.  Michelangelo got sucked in by the challenge and spent four years of his life, away from his beloved stone-cutting,  painting immortal images for this pushy guy with a pointed hat.

As I watch Paul work on the mural, each of those stories echoes in my head at various times.  The heifer story rings loudest when I remember the foyer wall of a couple weeks ago, featureless – your basic wall with a couple of distracting doors.  And then I think about the snakes of blue tape crawling over the lines traced upon the wall and Paul “killing the white” with a tan base:

Then incrementally blocks of color appear intersecting with streaks of increasing definition:

And more dabs appear, tying those streaks together until they became tree and branch, leaf and sky that spread like Spring across the wall:

And then, more recently, they slowly resolve as though being “focused” and viewed through an old, pre-digital SLR camera:

Seems like that wall was a little baby calf just yesterday, where is this awesome, full-grown critter coming from?

Obviously the golf story comes into play as I realize I do not have the slightest idea how he makes it happen.  I mean, I like to create my images, and I choose to believe that the pleasure they contribute moves beyond the immediate sphere of my own joy in creating them.  But this is a whole different level of “game.” How do the lines morph into branches?  How does flat become round?  That whole “crooked places straight and rough places plain” thing?  Paul explains patiently that the light is coming from the upper left so the dark values have to lie at the lower right of each branch, tree, or leaf, and then the lighter values round the object as you proceed to the upper left.  “Of course,” I think.  “And do you want fries with that?”  Still, I understand a bit more each day.

Finally, the Sistine Chapel story sometimes strikes a bit too close to home.  Last night as the four of us gathered again for dinner Paul did sigh and admit, “I wish I could get back to building my guitars.”  Despite the fact that we had all spent time discussing the possible perils to our friendship that lay in his undertaking the task, I still felt a bit like the pompous Pope who just wanted a cool ceiling.  This morning, however, we talked and he admitted that the pressure to get the mural "just right" came from within:

“I am cursed,” he admitted, “by knowing what I am capable of, and, once started, I cannot stop until I have achieved that.”

"Hmmm," mutters my evil twin.  "Step into my chapel, please, this will just take a minute .  .  .  ."
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