First, Ask the Right Question

.
I apologize if you have been missing your “dose of strangeness from Schrag” recently, but I have struggling with the third tenet of Distilled Harmony, “Distill Complexity" for several weeks. While I usually cast Distill Complexity as the third among equals in the Distilled Harmony theory of everything, the fact that “distilled” is one of the two words that define the theory itself speaks to its importance. To distill something is to reduce it to purest state, and that is where I have been running into problems.

I’m not sure when the current object of my obsession began spinning around in my head, but when I began peppering the essay with subheadings and “note to self: bring in the part about .  .  .” I realized that any progress toward "distilling complexity" had taken flight. In hindsight that is not terribly surprising as the subject of my current consideration is "why does the universe exist?”  To release you from any suspense let me put the “spoiler” right up here at the front: The raison d'être for the universe is maximizing Harmony. I have paraphrased Dr. King's famous quote several times, because you should always steal from the very best. My version: The arc of the universe is long, but it bends toward Harmony.  

It is in trying to explain to you how I reached that conclusion where complexity rears its frustrating head.  It has become obvious that this particular distillation occurs in a number of steps, and even I am having trouble following my transitions. So that is where I will begin - cutting this kudzu-like post into more understandable pieces. The posts will probably appear separately - again in the interest of distilling complexity. This initial post I will call:

First, Ask the Right Question

I remember encountering general semantics as a young Ph.D. student in Dr. Ray Ross’s class in communication theory. Dr. Ross, who also believed in stealing from the best, would thunder, “The word is not the thing! The map is not the territory!”  Or as I chose to remember it: A description or depiction of something, no matter how artfully constructed, is necessarily different from that which is being described or depicted. [I know, I know - that sounds like the opposite of distillation, but it is for me a necessary inflation as Distilled Harmony asserts that descriptions and depictions - particularly in art and literature - can contain elements of the original. But that is for another time and another post. You see the problem I’m having?]  But Ross’s “purer” assertion [he did cite Korzybski] works better here. The map is not the territory - nor is the equation.

Two incredible minds, Albert Einstein and Stephen Hawking, report agonizing about getting the math of the universe right. They have walked us down fascinating paths into the “what” of the universe. Mass, energy, black holes, wormholes, the intriguing possibility of time travel. These are glorious minds, awe inspiring intellects. It seems almost sacrilegious to assert that they may have led us to the wrong lamppost. You remember the old joke - I use it all the time:  

It's midnight.  Drunk is down on hands and knees, searching for his car keys under the lamppost.  The beat cop comes along, offers assistance and asks "Are you sure you dropped them here?”

"No, I dropped them back there," the drunk responds gesturing back into the shadows.

"Then why are you looking here?" inquires the incredulous officer.

"The light is better here."

There are a number of excellent reasons to read Richard Panek's book The 4 Percent Universe.  But the one that never fails to make me stumble, when it crosses my mind, is his well-articulated assertion that the science that defines the four percent of the universe we can currently observe and gather data from is - especially considering the academic politics that reigns it in - fairly solid. Yet, Panek observes, we cannot escape the equally solid conclusion that what we know about the remaining 96 % is, if not simply smoke and mirrors, pretty much pure guesswork that we label dark matter and dark energy because we don’t know what it is.  Equally inescapable then is the realization that even geniuses like Einstein and Hawking are looking under a very, very small lamppost.

But wait! That’s not all! We can’t forget Heisenberg. He is the guy with the cat in the box, the strange "neither dead nor alive cat." The cat we either kill or resuscitate just by peeking in the box. In Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle our observation of an event affects the event.  That being said, it seems fair to ask to what extent are our "normal” conceptions of space and time the product of "convenient observations under the nearest lamppost” which are further distorted by the very act of our observation? Does make your head spin a bit, not?

Still, front to back, side to side, up down, then-now-tomorrow - those are the easily measurable spaces in which we live our lives. Is it any wonder that the scientific method followed those precise pathways as we sought to measure and understand the world, solar system, galaxy and universe in which we live?  The telescopes get better. Scientific descriptions become ever more precise. We get better and better at defining the "what" of where we live. But remember, those assertions are somewhat of a paper tiger - and possibly a paper tiger in a Heisenberg box. Remember Panek’s  point: We can observe only 4 % of our local universe, and nothing of any other universes that may lie beyond ours.  So, are we going to trust results based on our observations of that 4 %? That makes me a tad nervous.

Think about it this way. Let's say you were conducting an experiment to determine the average height of 4th graders. You go to Local Middle School down the street from your house. You walk into the front door and ask for the closest 4th grade classroom. You go to the classroom. There are 25 students in the class. You take the first student closest to the door (1 is 4 percent of 25) and measure his or her height. The student is 4 feet 7 inches tall. And on the basis of that observation you declare that the normal height for all fourth graders in the universe is 4'7”.  This is about as flawed as an empirical design can get. Even a poet can count the ways: There may be other 4th graders elsewhere in the building, but we cannot see them, so we will call them "dark 4th graders," and ignore them. There is another public school across town in a very different neighborhood, but we don’t go there. Private schools and charter schools and gender differentiated schools all exist, catering to specific groups that may reflect taller or shorter gene pools. They too, don’t count. We stay under this 4’7” lamppost. I know, I know, that is just so wrong. But the analogy is frighteningly apt for the declarations we make about the structure of the universe based on our observations of its closest, or most observable, 4 %.

Strangely, that is not what concerns me most. Einstein and Hawking do the best they can with the available information. You cannot make-up data that you do not have. Well, you can, but eventually your articles will be “withdrawn” and you will lose your job. Scientists can only make their best observations and attempt to marry those observations to the theories best articulated in the literature. That is the scientific method. It underlies all the terrific toys and terrible weapons of our world. It is the current king of the educational mountain. STEM [Science, Technology, Engineering and Math, for those of you unfamiliar with the acronym] rules. And that is a shame, considering that the universe is vast and our lamppost is so small.  The sad reality is that despite our best efforts, a STEM-centric exploration of the cosmos not only brings us questionable results, it also stifles our exploration of other, and in my mind, more important questions.

Let me again retreat into analogy. Let us say that STEM allows us to slip the surly bonds of Earth and trek off across our 4% of the universe. In true sci-fi fashion we encounter a planet on which we find the ruins of a magnificent structure. After years of effort and amazing amounts of money, we manage to reconstruct the edifice. A tour is arranged for all of Earth’s leaders. They wander and wonder down glorious hallways, through rooms huge and magnificent, and into smaller architectural pearls.  After the tour they enjoy a banquet back at the base where the scientists and engineers have lived during the reconstruction. The Project Leader shows a holographic presentation of the entire reconstruction process - truly an engineering marvel.  After the presentation the floor is opened for questions. Much cooing and fawning results.

Another guest rises and asks, “What was it for?"

Project Leader: “Huh?"

Guest: “What was it for? Why did they build it?"

Project Leader: “Well. Ah. That’s not really my area. Maybe, George can address that. George?"

George, it appears, cannot be found.

A simplistic analogy, I admit. But the question remains. Why does the universe exist? The current obsession of the scientific community appears to be creating the equations, getting the math right that describes what the universe is. Much effort and treasure has been expended on those equations. Nonetheless, those best efforts still seem to leave us with two significant unanswered questions.

One: Can we derive, and trust, and generalize to the universe - remembering Heisenberg as we answer -  conclusions based on samples of "observational convenience” drawn from 4% of the universe? And,

Two: Even if we can put some faith in those conclusions, are we asking the right questions? Is the “What” of the universe the important issue? Should we not be far more concerned with “Why?”  And I don't mean the simple "why" of how the physical elements evolved or came together, I mean the existential why.  Why are we here? Do we have purpose? Do our lives have meaning? If you believe we are simply a by-product of the evolution of the “ what” - chemicals combining in a fortuitous accident, well, that's fine, I suppose. But for me, it's a bit of a curiosity killer, as is the other end of the great existential debate - an acritical acceptance of ancient writs that place some prophet or another center stage as the mouthpiece for the existential Godfather; who is either open-minded, compassionate and forgiving or ruthless, vicious and vindictive, depending upon your mouthpiece and text of preference.

Personally, from a Distilled Harmony perspective, I have come to believe that we are here as free-will, intentional participants in a universe that is itself sentient, and that, as I said at the beginning, bends toward Harmony.  It is a perspective that, perhaps strangely, might gain significant support were we to add some additional data into current scientific examinations of the nature of the universe. STEMites, for the most part, draw their conclusions regarding the nature of the universe within the solid boundaries of the traditional dimensions; up down, side to side, back and forth, and time - then, now and in the future. Those STEM-oriented observations and conclusions create the equations that we mistake for the universe. Interestingly, those same equations may point the way to a liberating, more encompassing view of the universe. I will share my thoughts on that expanded view with you in another post - hopefully not too far down the path into the future.

.

Strolling with Albert

.

"So," he said, "If you are concerned about getting more exercise, get a Fitbit or something, a make sure you do 10,000 steps a day."  He isn't just my oncologist, he is a friend, and here on The Schrag Wall like the rest of you.  So I said, "OK."

It isn't as if I'm a stranger to exercise. I used to work out - a lot. Another Wall member introduced me to running when we both taught out in New Mexico. I never reached his level of dedication, but eventually I was running several miles a day, several times a week - at altitude, for crying out loud. After moving to North Carolina I got a locker over at the gym and maintained a fairly respectable workout schedule. When I was acting as Head of the Department my manta was, "For now, I will live for the department, but I certainly will not die for it!"  So I upped my workouts, adding Racquetball to jogging, and weight lifting, and subjected myself to a bunch of machines apparently left over from the inquisition. Even my incredibly fit sister would be proud.

But then, a few years later, I got sick - multiple myeloma. Now, after a couple of stem cell transplants things seem to be holding, knock on wood.  However, during each transplant my docs over at The Bone Marrow and Stem Cell Transplant Center in Chapel Hill - who, despite not being here on The Schrag Wall, I view as consummate professionals - said "Day 12 is Noodle Day!" I learned that that little bon mot meant that on the 12th day after your transplant you felt like a wet noodle. No energy, no desire to do anything but find a comfortable position and doze. They were right - both times. What they didn't mention was that to a significant extent the get-up and go that had got up and went, stayed gone. 

It turned out that even if I had the energy, most of my old activities, like racquetball, running, etc., would be sidelined because, in my particular case the multiple myeloma had done some pretty significant damage to the bones in my back and hips, so those old routines simply hurt too much.  But walking seems OK, so the Fitbit seems a good option to try. But, not quite as simple as it might appear at first blush.  

You see, I had never been into exercise for the sake of exercise itself.  Secondary motives, stress reduction, the approval of others, etc., had always been what kept me in the gym.  I never experienced the "runner's high" and only observed it when various runners would head for the bar after running for a couple quick martinis, or when they hung out in the parking lot smoking dope. I am reasonable sure that my oncologist was not advocating adding either of those activities to my daily regimen. So I started casting about for someone to serve as my "walkabout role model," some sort of hiking hero. Again, not that simple.

The first tenet of Distilled Harmony is to foster harmony; make the world a more gentle and joyful place. So my role model had to be someone at peace with their "walking self." But watch the people who are out for their daily run, or folks lifting weights at the gym, or people who are obviously "walking for exercise." These do not appear to be happy carefree souls. There is serious work to be done here, and they are doing it - seriously. Smiling is apparently not part of the program and even eye contact seems to be frowned upon unless it is to share a grimace or a groan. I may be wrong. Maybe it is just that the "workout frown" and the "bench press puff, grimace and groan" is mandatory - ritual evidence of membership in some fitness fraternity. Whatever the reason, I'm not going there. Distilled Harmony frowns on frowning.

But I still needed a saint of strolling, a wizard of walking. And that is when I recalled the fitness routine of one of my all time heroes - Albert Einstein.  Nowhere in the biographies I have read about the man does it say "And then Professor Einstein went to the gym for a session on the Stairmaster, and afterwards he did a series of crunches and several rotations of free weights." Apparently that never happened.

However, the professor did walk. Often and at great length. He was a common sight strolling the streets of Princeton, lost in thought - and occasionally lost in Princeton as well. Local citizens and constables would direct him back toward the university from whence he could plot a course home or to the office. Were we to find ourselves doing that nowadays we would immediately take ourselves off the closest healthcare facility with visions of senility or Alzheimer's disease dancing in our heads. Einstein, however, knew he was just thinking, strolling and thinking - and that was just fine.

I had found my model. The idea is to stroll around in your head as much as you stroll around the block, or track, or neighborhood. So now, when I begin a walk, I at least start with a question I want to work on - usually something right-brain creative in nature. But that obviously often gets bounced around; right-brain, left-brain, right-foot, left-foot, right, left, right, left and off I go - strolling and smiling, thinking, musing, and occasionally stopping to take notes before strolling off again.  Left right left right left right. Now, that's my idea of a fitbit.

.

Curiosity

.

I wish I had paid more attention to curiosity as a child. However our culture and our educational system is obsessed with us knowing answers. Now, at 66, I realize that the prompting of questions is far more important.

Editing history:

"See the green balloon, Robby?  Yes, green."

And Robby nods, or says "green."

What I should have said was "Well, not really green, there is a lot of blue going on there. How does color happen anyhow, Dad?"

"Can you make the letter W, Robby?"

And Robby makes an attempt at W.

What I should have said was: Oh, you mean that upside M, Mom? Isn't weird that those two symbols are inverted versions of each other. I wonder how that happened!?

Can I really fault my students for wondering which answer will get them more points on the test? They live in a world where, most often, answers and the illusion of certainty are rewarded far more often than "not knowing," and wondering why.

.

Fixing Up The Porch

.

I have written about the porch of the house where I was raised a number of times. For example -

The Porch on Monday, January 27, 2014

http://schragwall.blogspot.com/2014/01/the-porch.html

and, Minding Mindfulness or Ignore This Post on Friday, November 21, 2014

http://schragwall.blogspot.com/2014/11/minding-mindfulness-or-ignore-this-post.html

There were some earlier ones - back in 2011 I think. They touch different issues but they are always, to some extent, exercises in memory.

Well, I came up with another piece of that particular memory a few days ago. During the mild months, the porch was screened in so we could read and sleep and play in a relatively bug free environment. It is from those months that I think I remember another detail. There was a metal panel over the lower half of the screen door. It was a sort of box weave, shiney green metal strips about a quarter of an inch wide that made a grid of squares about an inch and a half across. It rattled when the door shut. I try to see it on the other screen walls, but it fades out. Might not have been there. I'll look again another day. However, I need to emphasize that getting the physical reality of the porch clear in my head is more entertainment than harmonic necessity.  It is the memory of the Harmony of the porch that is important.

James Taylor does a “what I remember about growing up” song called, Copperline. Copperline captures that difference between physical and emotional recall. The song is all about memory, magical memory if you will.  In the song Taylor recalls the harmonic moments that unfolded in that magical place : 

Branch water and tomato wine, creosote and turpentine,
sour mash and new moonshine . . .
First kiss ever I took, like a page from a romance book,
the sky opened and the earth shook, down on Copperline.

But then there is this bit in the last verse:

I tried to go back, as if I could, all spec house and plywood.

Tore up, and tore up good, down on Copperline.

It doesn't come as a surprise to me, it doesn't touch my memory.

I could, and have, gotten on Google Earth and flown back to the porch of the house where I was raised. The fact that the house and the porch are still there is a bittersweet testimony to the fact that my hometown has been frozen in time for the last half century. Springfield appears to be neither dying nor thriving.  Rather it is caught in a strange kind of stasis, as though waiting for the kiss of a prince to wake it.  The house and the porch, unlike Copperline, are not "tore up good," still,"seedy" would seem an apt adjective.  But just as current Copperline leaves Taylor unperturbed, current Springfield cannot touch my memory. The current physical reality has no impact on the meditative porch that I keep in my heart and head.

As described in the linked posts above, I go to the porch of my memory to calm the cognitive stream that defines my "walk-about, get it done now, take a stand, real world." The tranquility of the porch in my head lets the subsequent meditation unfold. However, before I relax into the meditation, I do "walk around" the porch, checking its physical and metaphysical structure, seeing if there is anything in need of repair.  And the criteria for any remodeling of the porch adhere to the old notion of "form follows function."

The function of the magical porch in my head is to create a space that is in tune with what a couple of decades ago I called The God Chord, and now think of as the Distilled Harmony of existence. So any changes to the porch need to be changes that move me toward that goal, toward creating a meditative space that manifests the four tenets of Distilled Harmony (see www.distilledharmony.com) - Foster Harmony, Enable Beauty, Distill Complexity, and Oppose Harm. Well, the last time I walked around the porch I discovered a bit of discord that I needed to address.

You may remember that I wrote about envisioning the discordant bad bits of your life as tennis balls that tried to bounce up onto your porch. You then seized your metaphysical tennis racket and smacked them off the porch and out into some universe far, far away. Remember that? Well, I'm afraid I'm going to have to back away from that idea. It does Oppose Harm. But Oppose Harm is the fourth tenet. The first tenet of Distilled Harmony is Foster Harmony. It seemed more and more that while it might feel good to smack those discordant bits out into some alternate reality, it was counterproductive from a meditation perspective.  Raised the heart rate, the old fight or flight reaction kicked it. Calming it was not.

Here is the thing to remember as you construct your own version of "the porch," whatever, whenever or wherever it may be.  Harmony is the natural state of existence, but you cannot force it to surround you. You need to wait patiently for it to gently enfold you. Your porch is the metaphysical - perhaps with physical elements - space that you construct as “the space in which you wait."  Hence it must be an environment that welcomes Harmony. Whacking the discordant bits with metaphysical racquets and bats does not create an environment that welcomes Harmony.

So here is what I have changed. The porch screens are now woven from Harmony. The bad bits still try to tempt me into the "Boy, I should have . . ." and the "If I'd only . . ." fights. But now when they try to bounce up onto the porch they “poof" into the transparent screens of Harmony, about the texture of Cotten candy. The screens restrain the bad bits and re-tune them into harmonies that I still cannot recognize. Once re-tuned, the bad bits are sent drifting off into spaces and places that concern me not at all. Occasionally, the thump of their initial impact intrudes upon the porch.  But at most I glance up, nod in friendly recognition, and wave as they toddle off.

Then I focus on the music and wait patiently for Harmony to be once again revealed, and waft me away to quiet nothingness.

.

CONfronting a CONtemporary iCON - or, CON CON CON

.

This not an easy piece to write as it requires me to chide both a favorite TV program and an “artist” I have never met. But the fourth tenet of Distilled Harmony [www.distilledharmony.com] is Oppose Harm, and to paraphrase the Duke, “sometimes a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do."

I must admit that I had never heard of Marina Abramovic until CBS Sunday Morning’s gushing story by Serena Altschul about Abramovic that aired November 30th, 2014. Obviously my error as the story began by informing me that Art Review magazine had dubbed Abramovic #5 on its list of "the hundred most powerful people in the contemporary art world." As the story unfolded it became clear why the adjective “powerful” was employed instead of oh, say, talented or creative or meaningful or .  .  .  .  

Abramovic is a performance artist who seems to do pretty traditional stuff as far as CONtemporary performance art is concerned.  She hurts herself in a variety of ways. She puts people into a large empty space, blindfolds them and puts noise canceling headphones on them and has them walk around bumping into walls and each other. Stuff like that. In her defense I could not find references to any works that were gratuitously violent to others or panderingly erotic or scatological. She is perhaps best know for a “performance” called “The Artist is Present” in which she sat on a chair in a display space at MoMA. There was a table in front of her and another chair across the table from her. She would sit silently in her chair and museum guests, I assume paying guests, would sit in the other chair and - also silently - gaze into her eyes.

It has always seemed to me that there are - to grossly oversimplify - two kinds of artists in the world. They are, perhaps, united in a powerful need to create. Making a living as an artist - any kind of artist, visual, musical, dance, literature, etc., - is so difficult that few people stick with it unless truly driven to create. But underneath that large umbrella I have always felt a dichotomy between artists who create primarily to communicate with others, art for an audience; and those who create as a kind of personal therapy. That second category includes those whose art makes them feel better. An audience is only necessary as a tool for, or a witness to, their personal therapy.  “The Artist is Present” seems a to fit clearly in the “art as personal therapy” school. What can be more affirming than having 750,000 people pay for the privilege of coming and sitting across the table from you? You don’t talk to them. You do nothing. You can see in them whatever you choose, while they focus on you. Talk about the ultimate ego rush. Memememememememememe! They shift and move on like a speed dating partner, but you remain constant. It is always about memememememememe!

But, in a way, that is OK. It obviously makes Abramovic feel good. My own doodles make me feel good. If they make others smile - all the better. Art has to live under a pretty big tent. Anyone who feels that they can understand all ART, writ large, is going to find themselves in need of serious therapy. There is just too much being said in too many different ways for any one human being to take it all in, let alone come to grips with what each artist is trying to say. I get that. Live and let live. But then Abramovic went too far:

"The worst childhood you have, the better artist you become, because you have things to work with," she said.

What an utter crock. Sounds like a would-be gangsta rapper trying to establish some kind of street cred: "My neighborhood was so tough that smoking crack was considered a form of rehab." Please.  Perhaps Abramovic draws her creative energy from an abusive childhood. That would explain the dominant “self-therapy” strain in her work. But to generalize her personal journey to the rest of the world “The worst childhood you have, the better artist you become,” is incredibly arrogant, and potentially dangerous.  Want your child to discover his or her true artistic potential? Smack them about a bit. Be withdrawn. Be cold. It may seem cruel now, but they will thank you for it when they - like Abramovic - have a sprawling, bucolic estate in upstate New York where they can retreat, hug their favorite tree with the nice lady from Sunday Morning, do yoga with Lady Gaga and recharge their batteries.

I mean really. I try to rein in my inclination to assert that in most CONtemporary art the accent is on the first syllable. But just when I think I’m finding some harmony there, someone like Abramovic comes along playing the long CON. This is an artist who seems utterly unfamiliar with the notion of Enable Beauty.

.

Restlessness

.

Restless

Considering the fact that the little hand 

(If we still had clocks with hands)

Has now nudged past three,

And the rosy-fingered dawn is probably

Stuck somewhere out over the Mediterranean,

That seems to capture it.

I am content with the understanding

I have come to with the Universe.

Foster Harmony.

Enable Beauty.

Distill Complexity.

Oppose Harm.

Got it. I'm trying.

But the itch I cannot scratch is the one

That moves that agreement forward.

Being no longer willing, or perhaps likely,

To wait the decades necessary 

To observe success or confirm failure;

The task of instilling curiosity 

In students who could be my grandchildren

Has lost its allure.

So, in lieu of my life’s work - what?

Currently I take my greatest pleasure

From drawing fanciful abstractions

While listening to whatever musical genre

Captures my inclination of the moment.

But the serious rules governing mature society

Create long noses down which

Such endeavors are observed.

Yet around me those same pinched nostrils

Attend with “all due respect” to “goals and plans”

Both “long term” and “interim”

That have time and time again

“Turned slowly unto dust.”

I have grown tired,

Not simply of feeling dusty,

But also of pretending

That it is important to be thus.

So again, in lieu of my life’s work - what?

At the moment just restlessness.

Still, I take some degree of comfort

In having snared this particular bit of lightening 

In its appropriate bottle.

Perhaps with it thus suspended

I will discover ways to bend it to

A more harmonic path.

Fiddlesticks 2

.

Minding Mindfulness - or Ignore This Post

.

Perhaps the most common complaint I hear voiced against contemporary culture it is that it is so hard to ignore. And yes, I meant to end the sentence there. It is so hard to ignore just about everything. Our phones “push” messages to us. Colleagues can compell us to consider events by placing an “invite” on our “e-calendars.” Our computers encourage us to “submit a review” of that book we thought we were reading all by ourselves. It is all just so hard to ignore.  It is hardly surprising then, that we seem to be actively seeking better ways to do just that - ignore, to quiet the rush of life in the 21st century, to find a peaceful place in the midst of our pushy, “technologized” existence.  Let me offer the following ritual - part of which I have shared before - and which does, ha, ha, require - or can benefit from - some technology.

You need to begin by thinking about some peaceful place you would like to find. This is important because  part of the ritual asks you to create that scene in your mind in some detail. So it is helpful if it is a real place, but it need not be. Sometimes I enjoy crafting rather detailed mental animations that have nothing to do with reality. But they seem somehow to be more difficult to maintain.  Either way your “scene" does need to be a place that manifests the tranquility you desire.

My usual scene is the front porch of the house in which I was mostly raised, back in Springfield, Ohio. The specific details are largely irrelevant because you build the scene in your head. For example, I don’t really think the floor of the porch was really painted barn red, but for some reason I make it so.  It was a modest concrete slab - open in the winter, but screened in during the summer months, and the summer months were the magic months. There was a wicker table with  lamp. The lamp cast a golden haze, floating out into the summer night. Bits would break off and flutter past the sheltering evergreens on the backs of obliging fireflies. Murmurs of indistinct conversations rustled on the night breezes. When a sultry summer storm swept past, it was my deck upon a stormy sea - I have written to you about it before:

The porch

Of the house

Where I was mostly raised

Is rather small.

Drive-bys, real and virtual

Confirm this fact.

Yet in my memory

It was quite large.

A world apart

Screened by shrubbery.

At night in particular,

It was a magic place

Bathed in the warm glow

Of those yellow "bug lights"

Now largely gone,

Replaced with harsh

Fluorescent spirals,

Sacrificed, like smoke-tinged autumn,

To keep the planet safe

And sterile.

But in memory

The porch floated serene

On their golden halo.

Serene and apart as rain

Drummed down all round.

I believe,

But cannot be certain,

That it is the porch

Of my current meditation

Backed by a gentle track

Called "Soft Forest Rain:"

I stand on guard,

A lad of maybe six,

Dressed in imaginative pajamas.

The particulars shift.

But always armed with

The proverbial new broom.

Cantankerous colleagues

Divisive kin

Old Regrets

Long-departed

Lovers and antagonists

Charge up the front steps

Like animated tennis balls

Demanding satisfaction.

"Get off! Get off my porch!"

I command,

And swing my mighty broom.

My aim is true

And the invading irritants

Carom back down the stairs,

Now a roaring cascade,

And are swept out

Along the sidewalk

To the street

To the gutters, and away.

Their carping accusations

Fade and blend

With the chirping of crickets

Leaving me alone,

Safe once more with the drumming

Of the rain.

And building such a scene is your first step. The “mind-clearing” step. The important part is that you create a mental environment where you can swing your mighty broom, or tennis racket, or golf club, cricket bat, or Hogwarts wand - whatever.  My guess is that it is best to draw the inspiration for this environment from a real-world place in which you felt truly and deeply safe and happy. Life being what it is, it may now only exist in memory. Lucky for us memory lives right next door to meditation and the two chat regularly over the backyard fence.

So lie down - or sit I suppose, my back much prefers lying down - and build the “broom swinging environment” in your head. My choice is to do this phase to music - noise canceling headphones if you are in an “auditorially challenged” environment: someone near and dear to you is snoring, someone far less dear is watching mindless TV or listening to what they choose to call music. Got the scene?  OK.  Now you begin to swat the irritants. But remember this is not WWE Raw, the intention is not to mindlessly pummel your opponent - Foster Harmony, remember? Rather the intent is to gracefully launch the irritant off into another universe where their discord may meet a harmonic counterpoint.

An important objective in this phase is to create a gentle dance in your head where your mighty broom doesn’t so much strike your irritant, as sweep them away as mentioned above. You create a mental dance that becomes graceful, gentle, calming, soporific. And falling asleep is a perfectly acceptable option. But I would encourage you to explore another choice - mental painting. Move into the Enable Beauty phase. You now create the animation that accompanies the music. The utterly wonderful thing about painting in your head is that you never have to actually have to draw, there is no learning curve, no software to master - simply thinking creates the painting. For me this animation usually takes one of two forms - one is the creation of a very complex Disney/Pixar/Norman Rockwell/Andrew Wyeth world. That one I can pretty much guarantee is going to stay dancing around in my head.

The other actually makes its way out into the real world. The tennis balls become blobs of color and their trajectories become clean black lines on a crisp white sheet of paper - and the image lingers long enough to be reborn on paper.  It is not that the exact image that skipped across the synapses comes to life when I sit down to draw. Rather the Sharpie - black, ultra fine - begins to dance across the paper. No real notion of where it is going, it just traces the trajectories that present themselves. This also happens to music. Most often I fill the whole page without lifting the point from the paper, but if I do - no big deal. The next step is to let boxes grow within boxes, or triangles within triangles - or appear wherever they seem to choose.

The result is a black and white template begging for color. And I, of course, oblige by pulling out the whole collection of colored Sharpies - to my knowledge second only to my sister Margaret’s. Yes, maybe there is something genetic going on. You may also be interested to learn that the relationship between any individual Sharpie’s cap and the color that flows from the tip borders on the arbitrary - even two Sharpies with the same color top! That is not necessarily a bad thing as it actually increases your available palette. But you need to know that going in.  But I digress, again. Anyhow, certain colors volunteer to participate and I help them fill in the spaces they prefer.  Knowing when to stop is the hardest part. I will tell you how to do that when I discover it myself.

I call the images that grow out of this process Fiddlesticks. There is no “meaning.” The objective is to elicit a smile. Here is the first one:

Fiddlesticks then led to a more studied application of the same processes. Those images I call Monograms - largely because that is what they are.  Here is mine.

Sometimes people ask “How long does it take you to do one of these?”  To which I reply “Get off my porch!"

.

Topping Off Harmony

.

Ansel Adams called the Monterey Peninsula a "Place, with a capital P." He felt that the peninsula's intersection of sea and sky and cliff conjured a mystical world, powerful, almost magic. He'll hear no contradictions from me. And part of the magic is how Adams's photographs capture the Place so brilliantly that they merge with, augment, maybe even replace, our own less focused, memories of that enchanted stretch of coastline.

I spent a couple of hours today wandering around the J A Ralston Arboretum here in Raleigh. As a place it may not warrant the peninsula's capital P, yet a number of characteristics argue for it being a place best defined by something other than lower case.  I haven't spent much time here in the last few years.  Oh, we have had some faculty retreats in the Education Building, but after spending several hours doing "business meeting behavior" the inclination to remain longer in the neighborhood fades. Today's meander reminded me that I need to return more often to this "place with a greater than lower case p," for it is the kind of place that Fosters Harmony.

Fostering Harmony is to a great extend modeling, demonstrating harmonious options in thought and behavior. In this way, demonstrated Harmony flows from ones own Harmony, an internal emotional storehouse from which one draws, and from there, out into the world in which we live. But you cannot go to the well of Harmony over and over again without depleting, to some extent, the supply. At least I cannot. People like Nelson Mandela seem to somehow possess an inexhaustible supply of personal Harmony, that enables them to make endless withdrawals while existing in horrible conditions.  Most of us deplete our personal harmonic reserves far more swiftly; a realization that brings me back to a consideration of the value of places like my arboretum, "places" with something other than a lower case p.

The arboretum certainly cannot claim the breath-taking beauty of Monterey, but then few places in the world can.  A fairer comparison can be found with the U.S. National Arboretum in Washington, D.C. and the Morton Arboretum outside Chicago. I have visited both many times over the years, and they both boast more acres and a broader variety of plants than our local version.  They also possess, in my mind, a fatal flaw - people.  Lots and lots of people. Many of the young and unsupervised variety, barely beyond ankle-biters.  Harmony serves as a shield against the inevitable friction that is generated when urban assumptions confront agrarian environments, but only with conscious effort.

On the other hand, I spent most of my time at the JA strolling in pleasant solitude, recalling earlier visits that never failed to replenish my inner stores of Harmony. I remembered anew that I used to come here to grade papers, back when they were actually papers, handed to me in manageable clusters of 20 or 30.  I used to bring books, again made of actual paper, here and read them on benches secluded in bowers of extraordinary leaves and flowers. I would read, and doze, and write.

Today, as I stroll and gaze, I realize that Fall has found its way again to the South, and the arboretum reflects the changes.  The deep greens and multi-hued blooms of summer have largely given way to cross-stitched hedges of straw-colored stalks still interrupted by an iris or late blooming rose; blooms that seem to have distilled the hues of an entire bush or bed into one last, outrageous, burst of color. Squirrels troll the leafy understory, plowing in search of the varied seed pods that will add spice to the leavings of winter's well-intentioned visitors who will ignore the signs and scatter nuts and popcorn along the pathways.

I rest my walking stick against an arbor and take a seat on a rustic bench whose plaque informs me that it was donated by a son in loving memory of his parents. I say a silent thanks to all three as I turn my face into the late afternoon sun, close my eyes, and let the ambient Harmony top off my own Winter stores.

.

The Sky is Falling . . .

.

First let me say that I realize that in every age the old folks have sat around muttering "The sky is falling. Damn kids, the sky is falling."  "Haul the fire inside the cave? Damn kids, the sky is falling." "Ride around in a wagon with no horse? Damn kids, the sky is falling!" "Elected Tricity? Damn kids, the sky is falling!" The Bomb! TSIF! Pollution! TSIF! Mary Lou Gewanna! TSIF! Global warming! TSIF! And yet somehow the human race has always muddled through. I must, however, call your attention to these large blue chunks that have been crashing to the ground in my world recently, and assert that there is actual cause for alarm.

I suppose I could trace it back to losing my cellphone.  I know, I know, we ALL lose our cellphones. At least once, if not several times, a day.  But this time it stayed lost. After a week of covert and overt searching, which included rifling the pockets of pants that have not fit for years, I declared the phone well and truly lost and set about replacing it. Rather than opting for the latest and greatest model that priced out somewhere north of 300 bucks, I opted for the $49.50 "replacement from b-stock.” Read: old phones that the young and monied had traded in, in exchange for the latest and greatest. The company rehabs the old phones and sends them out to guys like me. Well, after an exchange of maybe ten emails and a couple of "FAQ Letters From the Community," the phone now works, but all my saved contacts have been scattered out onto the solar wind, and are currently drifting past Uranus, or maybe mine.

About the same time that this was all going on my MacBook Pro began behaving strangely.  It had obviously channeled Hal from 2001: "I'm sorry, Robert. I'm afraid I can't do that" became its favorite saying, as it gleefully spun its multi-colored MacBall of Shame. Twice in as many days it flashed the dreaded Gray Screen of Death.  The problem is that when my computer dies, several hundred university students go without class. Despite their giddy feelings, I consider that a bad thing.  Hence, I took my Mac upstairs to the tech guys.  They huddled about and spoke geek speak in hushed tones. “Tomorrow," they concluded, and I went away.

The next day I was greeted with confident smiles. "All is well!" I was told, and I took my machine and left, comforted.  A couple of days later I was putting a PowerPoint presentation together for a video for my online class. "Print" I told my machine.

"I'm sorry, Robert. I'm afraid I can't do that." And the MacBall of Shame spun round and round.  

A quick drive into campus. Upstairs to the guru geeks. "Mutter, mutter. Aha! That's the problem!"  “Tonight,” they declared.  Again, I went away but not quite as comforted.  Later that night, after having been assured it was a "wicked fast machine," I took it home.  It was wicked fast. I finished the PowerPoint. "Save," I told my machine.

"I'm sorry, Robert. I'm afraid I can't do that." And the MacBall of Shame spun round and round.

I could go on, but it would only make me weep. Instead, I will ask you to play a little mind game that I play with my students. No tech required, not even a pencil and paper.  Think of the number of times your technology has told you in the last, oh, two days "I'm sorry. I'm afraid I can't do that." Email glitches, GPS runs you into a dead end, print fails, Netflix dies, batteries crash, anything. Think of that number.  Now multiply it by 214,942,000 - the 75 % of the US population, which the census bureau says is how many of us own a computer. (OK, I lied about "no tech." Pull the calculator up on your phone, tablet, or computer.)  Divide the number you get by 2, the number of days we considered, and the number you see on the screen is a very low estimate of the number of times, everyday, our various machines told us, as a nation, "I'm sorry. I'm afraid I can't do that."

Yet, we rush to make ourselves, our banking, our entertainment, our music, our art, our social interactions, our healthcare, our cars, our entire existence increasingly dependent upon this capricious web of screens and wires and machines. TSIF! TSIF! TSIF!

This is where I am supposed to say something comforting. Where I assert that the engineers will get it right, that governments will enact policies and mandate fail-safes that will address these big blue and cloud-marked chunks over which I continually stumble. This is where I should opine that Google or Apple or Facebook certainly will create an all-purpose “patch."

I would like to, but,

"I'm sorry, my friends. I'm afraid I can't do that."

.

Calling the Genealogy

.

If you do an Internet search on the phrase "call and response" most of the information returned is either musical or theological.  In jazz or gospel music one musician will offer - or call out - a dominant phrase and another will embellish the composition with a response. Call and response. In a religious setting the leader will call out a key phrase and the congregation will answer back as the liturgy demands. Call and response. The definition is accurate, but limiting.

I am more comfortable with the idea of "assertion and affirmation." One voice asserts something to be so, and other voices affirm - and usually expand upon - the assertion.  But both call and response and assertion and affirmation go beyond a logical construction.  The history of the form - whatever we chose to call it - has a lot to do with community and identity.

The same Internet search will return a lot of hits that deal with the African, or African-American, roots of call and response, both in music and theology. Slave chants to both pace and break the monotony of hard labor; religious chorusing to maintain faith and define a community of hope.  Again, accurate but limiting. I would guess that scholars of any specific group could provide us with examples of "assertion and affirmation" in their community of interest.  From the days when human beings first cast their lot upon the waves, sea shanties or “chanties” - in addition to making hard, dangerous, and frightening work a little lighter - bound the often culturally disparate community of maritime laborers together. 

From Roman legions to boot camps around the modern world, soldiers drill, march to, and are unified by, the rhythmic, semi-sung "assertion and affirmation" chants of their compatriots.  I am unaware, other than in communities of silence, of religious services in which responsive readings play no part.  Rather, "reading responsively" seems central to assertions of faith and community throughout the world. Fans of athletic teams will "call and respond" with team colors to urge their favorites on to victory.  Here at NC State that means "Red!" pause, pause, "White!" So however we name it, from communities both sacred and profane "Call and Response" or "Assertion and Affirmation" seems, if not universal, then at least far-flung.

And what, you may well ask, does that have to do with the family reunion/farm auction I attended a few weeks ago in South Dakota? Excellent question.

If Distilled Harmony can make any claim to being a Theory of Everything, a claim I do make when lights are low and things are warm and comfortable, the tenets need to bring meaning to the events of each passing day. The "assertion" of the validity of a tenet needs to be followed by the "affirmation" of a "for instance." In this particular "for instance" the tenets of Foster Harmony and Distill Complexity brought me face-to-face with an unusually version of "call and response" or "assertion and affirmation."  Let me set the stage.

My Schrag grandparents were married on November 23, 1905. Over the next several decades they, farmed, preached, taught school and raised nine children out on the demanding, but fertile, plains surrounding the little hamlet of Freeman, South Dakota. Those children, in turn, produced some 20 + children of their own.  That is my generation.  We refer to our parent's generation as the First Generation.  We are "the cousins." My father's death this past year, at age 100, reduced the surviving number of the First Generation to three, scattered, west coast, and Dakota with the youngest sharing time between New York City and West Lafayette, Indiana.

Well, it happened that one of "the cousins" had chosen the last week in July to auction off the family farm.  Her husband had passed away and her children were living down the road in the wicked city of Sioux Falls.  She figured, “Why should they have all the fun?” and made arrangements sell the farm and follow. Simultaneously the wife of one of the First Generation - who had also been born and raised in the Freeman area - was being honored, along with her deceased sisters. A bench dedicated the Singing Waltner Sisters was to be installed in a local park.  So she - my Aunt Stella, her husband, my Uncle Delbert - one of the surviving three of the First Generation - and a couple of their children (more of "the cousins") were heading for Dakota.  My New York/sometimes Indiana Uncle Calvin - another of the First Generation - decided if his two surviving brothers were going to be in Dakota, it would be silly for him not to be there too. So he and his daughter Heather - the youngest of "the cousins", and her daughter Jennifer, (a "cousin" once removed?) also headed west to Freeman. With all this going on a couple of "the cousins" declared this an ideal time for a family reunion - and so it came to pass. I decided this was not an event I could miss and bought a plane ticket to Sioux Falls and nabbed a Priceline car rental.  If you are now hopelessly lost, that is good, because that is exactly the point. 

Back to the events. The formal "reunion" was a dinner held in a large room in the restaurant out by the golf course. There must have been 40 or so of us there. The room had hard, flat walls; the same for the floor and ceiling. Mine is a family that talks a lot - and loudly.  It was then that I noticed that the entire  "First Generation" - and I believe that includes spouses - was sporting dual hearing aids.  They could probably hear what was going on.  I suspect some in my generation - myself included - were faking it. But I caught enough to grasp the dominant theme: who are you and how do you fit into this patchwork of Schrags?

The days leading up to the auction centered on getting Rita's [the cousin auctioning the farm] place ready for that event.  If you have never been to one, it is my understanding that even an ordinary farm auction defies description for urbanites.  Everything gets sold - from a huge combine to a paper of pins. The auctioneer holds up the item - "I've got a Winchester 9422 rifle here. Wonderfully maintained.  Who'll give me 75 dollars? Good. 100? .  .  . "  And so it goes until everything is sold, the Lookie-Lous have left and the dust has settled.  That's an ordinary auction, and this was to be no ordinary one. Somehow Rudy, the recently deceased husband of cousin Rita, had managed to acquire 14 tractors ranging from an ancient "What is that? A Farmall?" to late model John Deeres and International Harvesters with glass enclosed cabs, air-conditioning and stereos. It was an oft repeated theme that Rudy apparently applied to vehicles, tools, headgear, and five-gallon plastic jugs - if one is good, a few dozen must be better. There were to be "two rings," meaning that two sets of auctioneers would circle the site selling simultaneously.  Tough for the buyer if two items you had your eye on went up at the same time!

Getting ready for the sale entailed an incredible amount of work, much of which had been going on for days, if not weeks.  When west coast cousin John and I arrived on the scene we were given tasks requiring a specialized skill set - cleaning tractor windows. Having missed a couple of small, barely visible windows, the next day I was promoted to Gator driver.   Various sale items would be loaded onto the back of a John Deere Gator [think large golf cart with a small flatbed on the back] and local "cousin-in-law" Jim and I would drive it to where we were instructed. There others, with knowledge of the "big plan," would move the objects to where the auctioneers could get to them.  I searched in vain through cousin Rudy's vast collection of baseball caps for one declaring "Gators R Us" 

The day of the auction I awoke to drizzle and puddles in the parking lot of the Freeman Country Inn.  "They promised sun!" I muttered to myself as I jumped into my rental, grabbed a "morning sandwich" at the neighboring Subway, and headed for Rita's place. Visions of soaked lampshades and dry goods danced in my brain.  Fortunately, the mist blew over, cooling the day and letting the auction begin as scheduled. I truly cannot describe it.  I wandered around like a kid at his first county fair.  I may attempt a further description at another time, but that isn't the point here. The point was the unfolding theater.  My father was a sociologist. He taught me that eavesdropping is a perfectly legitimate research tool.  I used it extensively during the auction. The dialogue was intriguing:

Cousin Dean, brother to cousin Rita reported that "it was a good sale." 

A grizzled local informed his companion: "I think that was Art's tractor. Ran good up until the 70s." Art was a name often repeated.  I think he was either Rudy's father or Grandfather.

One of the First Generation called to a seeming age mate whom I did not recognize : "Well, hi there young fellow! I haven't seen you since [somebody's] 65th anniversary. How are you holding up?"

And then one of the guys who had been around the last couple of days and seemed privy to the big plan came up to me as I stood chatting with my 50+ west coast cousin John. "So," he asked me, "How do you fit in here? Is this your son?" Naturally, I addressed cousin John as "son" for the rest of the weekend.

Gradually I came to recognize a "assertion and affirmation" or "call and response" pattern that manifested at least two tenets of Distilled Harmony - Foster Harmony and Distill Complexity.  It is a phenomenon I have now come to think of as "calling the genealogy."  In truth, the phenomenon has always been a part of my visits to South Dakota.  Years ago I would simply identify myself as "Chummy's son." Chummy was my father's boyhood nickname, and that would usually suffice to define my place in the community.  I would "assert" my place as Chummy's son, and most often the "affirmation," "Oh, Reverend Schrag's boy, Chummy!" would complete the "call and response" the complexity of genealogy was quickly distilled, my place in it made clear, and my harmonious place in the community would be acknowledged.

But time, as it does with all things, has changed the dynamic of the ritual.  The "First Generation" now numbers three.  Only one of whom stills resides in this special place.  All but four of the 20+ "cousins" have departed. A few are within driving distance, but, for most, a pilgrimage "to Dakota" means full days in the air, rental cars, and the lobby of The Freeman Country Inn.

So the calling of the genealogy for a distributed clan takes on a complexity and a subtle urgency absent in the years when dozens of "the called" thronged, at previous gatherings, among all manner of kin. I suppose calling the genealogy always gets accentuated when the "out-of-towners" appear, but I was struck by how much energy went into articulating the various relationships during this gathering: so-and-so married so-and-so's son, and he was Uncle so-and-so's nephew on his mother's side. The "begats" poured out like an Old Testament homily, but rarely did we learn what these people did or had done for a living.  Unlike the urban environment in which I have lived most of my life  where  "So what do you do?" often follows an introduction; here relationship trumped occupation.  The questions here are "Who are your people?  How do you belong?"

While driving back to The Freeman Country Inn, I noticed a farmer out baling hay.  The tractor pulled the bailer across the field, scooping the hay that lay about in seemingly disorganized rows into the maw of the machine.  Then he turned and, before starting a new row, dropped a huge cylinder of neatly wrapped hay down at the edge of the field.  As the farmer and his growling machinery clanked away down the field, I pulled over to the side of the road, curious for a closer look.  

I had seen these large round bales before, but wanted to renew the acquaintance.  The bale was wrapped in a fine mesh - some hi-tech fabric I suppose.  And I was struck by the thought that that was what the genealogy was - a fabric that bound us together into a form that we could recognize.  We had spread out across the country, no longer united by geography, community, religion or occupation. But when we gathered together and performed the ritual of call and response, when we answered the questions "Who are your people? How do you belong?" we found ourselves gathered into a form that we recognized - we recognized a family.

.

Distilled Harmony Foreword - Dedicated to my Daughters

.

When they lie there in their cribs, 

It seems as though you can look  

Right into their hearts.

That you will always understand them

And they you.

In truth you will always be on

Different trajectories arching through 

Unique experiences in life.

You will remain decades apart, 

Seeing existence through varied lenses.

This is a time capsule I launch, 

On its arch across space-time.

In the hope that it will, 

When needed - intersect with theirs

Creating moments of understanding,

Providing shelter from the storm,

And surprising them with love.

My father's death was a strange surprise.  It wasn't one of those "He was so young, we never saw it coming" situations. It was quite the opposite as a matter of fact.  He was 100 years old.  He had always been in the world - as certain as taxes and, well, death.  My mother and older brother were examples of "normal strange." Jim, too young, Mom sudden and unexpected.  As a result I have grown used to "imagining them on my shoulder." I ask them the questions we all ask of our departed role models "What would you do in this situation?" "What did you believe?"  

I make my best guesses as to their responses. But they are only guesses.  We rarely have those "deep" discussions when we can actually get answers - and then the chance is gone.

Dad was the illusion of an exception.  100 seemed normal. He was always there, and for decades he would provide, if not answers, then at least input or opinions.  However, during the last few years of his life, when a good day for Dad was defined by clear memories of events long past and simple recognition, I realized I had already lost the chance to ask Dad "What would you do in this situation? What do you believe about this part of life?"  The opportunities for mutually meaningful conversation had slipped away, lost between the more surface joviality of birthdays and Christmases, lost between the time-and-energy pressure of jobs and children, lost in the gap between his maturity and mine. 

I'm not sure exactly why or when I decided to try to reclaim those losses by reflecting on both what I believe about existence and how those beliefs influence what I have done and what I will do. And then, to use those reflective insights as the foundations of these media recitations.  

By looking back through my writings and drawings, the introspection seems to have surfaced around the turn of the millennium. That moment's import on the Gregorian Calendar is probably of less significance than that point in the RobertSchragian calendar - I had turned 50 in 1999.  And strange things happen when you suspect that more of your life lies in the rear view window than awaits beyond the windshield.

In our youth obsessed culture, the inclination to try to scramble back into life in the rearview window is well-represented in fact and fiction. More valuable, I have come to believe, is seeking an understanding of what unifies the full 360 degrees of our life; realizing that those rearview, windshield, out the side-windows, distinctions are illusions.  It is all one existence. We just tend to look out the windows one at a time.

When I cruised past 50, it was as if I somehow levitated above the vehicle - and there I was suspended in the center of my existence - limitless horizons in all directions.  It was staggering. On the one hand it was exhilarating - everything gained new potential, a new freedom to zoom off in any direction. On the other hand it would be an agoraphobic's nightmare, hidden threats lurking around every corner.  Reconciling those extremes, to reveal the underlying existential unity of a life, is the challenge and the true exhilaration of "life outside the vehicle."

It was not long after beginning that exploration of life outside the vehicle, that I came to realize that "some kind of Harmony" was central to my personal existence.  Most everything I have written, or drawn, since that realization reflects my attempts to understand and articulate that Harmony.  Distilled Harmony – this series of recitations - is, in my mind, the best, clearest exploration of this worldview to date.  I hope it allows my daughters to better understand me. If others benefit as well, that is truly wonderful! 

So enjoy. . .

.

The Pursuit of Knowledge as a Measure of Cultural Maturity, or "Why is No One Out There Talking to Us?"

.
.
As I sit here at my desk I am surrounded by five screens.  The World Cup match between Argentina and the Netherlands is unfolding silently on my iPad while my laptop powers two screens, one holds Evernote where I am composing this essay, the other a Chrome window set to look for cheap car rental rates for a trip later this month, and to scan for any incoming emails. To my left sits my Wacom Cintiq panel where I am working on some new drawings. My cellphone rests somewhere around here - I'll find it if it rings. Pandora plays piano solos in the background - I'm not sure where it is coming from. This is my environment, one that I have come to accept as normal, but in which I am still not entirely comfortable.  

I grew up in an era in which acquiring information and advancing knowledge required significant real-time effort. Whether you labored in a university or a corporate research and development laboratory, you wandered the stacks of the library. You paged through journal articles. You conducted research by interacting with subjects or samples that were often in the same room or lab. You applied critical models or coded data, ran tests and examined results.  Then you looked for patterns and insights that allowed you to broach defensible conclusions or generate new hypotheses. Gathering information and advancing knowledge was hard work, and behind it always lurked the often unspoken assumption that the pursuit of knowledge was, in itself, an honorable goal.

Now more information than I could ever hope to acquire on my own shimmers across these screens that surround me. If I pose any hypothesis in the form of a question and enter it into Google Scholar or more specialized search engines available online through the university library, links to hundreds if not hundreds of thousands of studies will flash onto my screen providing - if not answers - then seemingly countless rabbit holes into which I can stumble and while away an afternoon, a week, or a career. In short, the pursuit of knowledge has become largely automated, as much programming as reflection. Where once we could dip a tentative toe in a particular pool, today we stand on the banks of rivers at flood stage, deciding whether or not to leap in. The sheer volume of information seems to demand levels of specialization undreamed of in my undergraduate days. The Mediaeval notion of a Renaissance man who could aim realistically at learning the sum of human knowledge is more fanciful than our wildest science fiction.

It is certainly a "brave new world." But, as always, the dynamic between knowledge and culture can be intense and unexpected.  The accumulation of new knowledge, by definition, mandates change. And change is, as often as not, uncomfortable, even frightening. And society - particularly those who benefit most from current norms - reacts poorly to change or information that falls somehow afoul of the current notion of truth. Historical negative responses to new or unexpected information have run the gamut from burning witches to burning books. And it would be nice to think it was all in the past. The streams of information flowing across my screen assert that is not the case.

A variety of news sources reveal that fundamentalists of every faith would have us turn the clock of human knowledge back several thousand years; stuffing, for example, the miraculous reality of evolution into the pleasant, fictional poetry of Genesis, or another of the myriad creation myths from our colorful and blended heritage.  As I write this a militaristic fundamentalist Sunni Islamic group known as ISIS - The Islamic State of Iraq and al-Sham is, apparently, attempting to recreate an historically and theologically pure Sunni entity in the Middle East - one that would perpetuate Sharia law, including the subservient place of women, supposedly demanded by centuries-old assumptions drawn from interpretations of the Quo-ran. Here in the rural South some Pentecostal believers still handle poisonous snakes because in one translation of the Bible it says "They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover." I do not mean to single out Islam and Christianity, they come to mind as they get the most attention in that media flow here on my screens. Choose the extreme sliver of any religious or political organization and you are likely to find an affection for the past and an unwillingness to embrace any new knowledge that conflicts with time-honored old myths that have fossilized into truth.

As fundamentalism gains influence in the American political landscape - perhaps most obvious with the Republican Party, the traditional conservative standard bearer in American politics being attacked as "not conservative enough" or "Republican in Name Only" aka "RINOS" - opportunistic politicians seek to curry favor with this increasingly vocal and well-funded, anti-intellectual portion of the electorate.  One result, at least publicly and in policy, is a growing distrust of new knowledge or education in general. This creates real problems in America's intellectual community - those who still believe that the pursuit of knowledge is, in itself, an honorable goal.

You see, in America, traditionally financial support for intellectual endeavors springs primarily from three sources; from its public tax supported institutions; from private institutions endowed by a wealthy elite class, or by multinational corporations purchasing research that will result in new products for expanding markets.  That is a model that seems to be gaining traction internationally, leading to a series of global conflicts between fundamentalist movements of a variety of stripes who oppose education and new knowledge for religious or political reasons, and multinational corporate entities or state-run economies that seek to direct human intellectual activities down paths that advantage their financial or political objectives. Neither side fights fair - allowing for the moment that the notion of a "fair fight" need not always be an oxymoron.

OK. Now shift gears for a moment.  Since the beginning of human society we have stared into the heavens wondering is we are alone.  In the last century or so we have peered further and further into the nooks and crannies of the universe, discovering galaxies, stars, and planets seemingly without number - there is even good evidence that our universe may be only one of many.  The notion that we are alone becomes absurd.  A more interesting question then becomes "Why is no one out there talking to us?"

Think about it for a moment. As a species we are remarkably clever. Our radio-telescopes listen to the murmur of the universe, our probes are poised to pierce the heliosphere. We are unwinding the mysteries of the genome. We talk boldly of coming to understand the brain, to poke at the edges of immortality.  So we should ask again "Why is no one out there talking to us?"  We can assume the existence of entities far more clever than we.  Civilizations that span planets and galaxies. There are just too many galaxies for homo sapiens to define the apex of sentient existence. It is more likely that the smarter kids in the class have been watching us for a long time. But it is equally likely that we will never be allowed to sit at their table in the lunchroom until we advance beyond our current adolescent fixations over power and politics, until we stop our schoolyard brawling and behave like adults.

And there is only one path to that admirable goal. We need to acknowledge the depth of our ignorance. We need to learn more, we need to study more, we need to become smarter. We need to realize that a truly healthy culture is one that seeks knowledge with the same ferocious intensity that, as a species, we currently seem only able to bring to the conduct of war.  Maybe then the smart kids will be willing to talk to us.

.

The Look of Love - Or Something Else

.

The eyes, we are told, are windows to the soul.  Hence, a long gaze into the eyes of any other might be quite revealing - could we but overcome the embarrassment.  It is an activity fraught with social implications and, at least in Western culture, restricted almost exclusively to lovers.  Yet, there are other acceptable recipients of long and seeking gazes; among them are babies, pets, portraits and, of course, the mirror.

The object of every gaze is discovery.  Lovers seek the reassurance of reciprocated affection, a promise that what one feels for the other, is likewise mirrored in their lover's eyes. In babies we project as much as we observe. We feel we glance, in those guileless orbs, the memory of past generations; the correction of bygone errors and the promise of futures full of joy and wonder. In the eyes of our pets we glimpse wise and sentient beings, untouched by human frailties, who love us unconditionally. And why not? What's not to love?

Portraits and mirrors move us into a more mysterious realm.  I admit to being fascinated by portraits. The often denigrated aboriginal belief that a camera could steal your soul may not be as naive as we portray it. I am not asserting that a photo or a painting steals something from a subject, but rather that an exceptional representation fashions a harmonic connection with the entity portrayed. I will also admit to being an unabashed fan of the photographer Yosuf Karsh. You may think you are unfamiliar with his work - but you are not.  Click over to www.karsh.org and you will realize that you know him well. Look at Einstein, Humphrey Bogart, Castro, Hemingway and Mother Teresa. Not only do you know Karsh's work, but his portraits play a large part in our perception of the people he photographed. Yosuf Karsh is to the human face what Ansel Adams is to Yellowstone, what Georgia O'Keeffe is to New Mexico. We look into the eyes of a Karsh portrait and see, not a soul stolen, but a soul reflected.

And the idea of a soul reflected leads us, naturally, to a consideration of mirrors. Despite the recent boom in skin care products for men, the make-up session before a mirror remains primarily a feminine occupation. It appears, at first blush, an acceptable lingering manifestation of the patriarchy. On closer examination I would assert it is much more.  Having been an undergraduate theater major, I have had a more than passing acquaintance with "the man in the mirror."  At 19 I rarely played a character my own age.  Freshman year I played Willy Loman in Arthur Miller's Death of a Salesman and Sir in the musical The Roar of the Greasepaint - The Smell of the Crowd.  Both characters were men in late middle age, one beaten, the other bombastic. Neither bore any resemblance to a fresh-faced kid from central Ohio.

We were expected to do our own make-up; and occasionally - depending on what theater class we were taking at the time - we were graded on our ability to transform our faces into a believable representation of our character.  And so began my personal travels into the looking glass. For hours I would stare into the eyes of the face before me, looking for the person it was supposed to be.  A shadow here, a wrinkle there, the inevitable blush of dissipation, a sag of age, and gradually Willy or Sir would appear. But I was rarely "finished." Having, as always, chosen the chair furthest from the door, I would remain - staring at the person I had become. Looking for the history behind the visage until it was time to walk him out onto the stage.

Now, of course, I wonder if this is what women do everyday. Beginning with what is there in the mirror, then artfully creating the idealized person they wish to present to the world - or perhaps crafting the face that the world they have chosen demands of them. 

.

Oppose Harm

 .
The admonition to Oppose Harm seems, at first blush, to be embarrassingly simplistic.  A decade ago it would have triggered a "Well, duh!" from anyone a few years either side of 20.  Today an "eye roll," that must eventually do real damage to the optic nerve, would not be a surprising reaction. Yet it is an "obvious" tenet to which we give more lip service than actual support.  Bullying remains a social cancer in America's schools.  Globally, entire cohorts defined by race or gender, belief or sexual orientation, are singled out for state-sponsored bullying, imprisonment or worse.

It is far from being an "eye-rolling, no big deal." If we don't commit to Opposing Harm, bullies will run the world. Genghis Khan, Hitler, Stalin, and Idi Amin are but four of history's many bullies who came to terrorize and murder millions because, as cultures, nations and individuals, we failed to Oppose Harm. So, we should go kick some "bully butt!" Send in the drones, right?

Well, certainly sometimes; but not always. When you stop and think about it for a moment - or even longer - the charge to Oppose Harm is really not that simple.  Rather, on further consideration, Oppose Harm swiftly reveals itself to be half of the most complex dynamic within Distilled Harmony.

Remember, the first - and preeminent - tenet of Distilled Harmony is Foster Harmony.  When Distilled Harmony requires us to both Foster Harmony and Oppose Harm there seems an obvious tension, an unavoidable discord. Opposition is, by definition, discordant and hence cannot Foster Harmony.  No argument. But, when a single situation pits Foster Harmony against Oppose Harm, the objective is to find the harmonic resolution resulting in the greater good.

Defining a "greater good" is always a daunting task, but we can approach it more successfully if we, as the tenet Distill Complexity suggests, avoid getting mired in fruitless complexities.  Albert Einstein asserted that seemingly complex truths about the universe could be distilled to concise explanations because "God does not play dice" with the universe.  Einstein was also a pacifist who would have whole-heartedly supported Isaac Asimov's assertion in Foundation, that "Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent."

But Einstein was no ordinary pacifist; he was a radical pacifist who was also the most famous man of his era. His public statements drew immediate and worldwide attention; and those statements made it clear that he believed that there was no legitimate justification for war; that the only way to put an end to war was to refuse to participate in warfare in any way. To express Einstein's belief system in Distilled Harmony terms, Foster Harmony, with its inclination to pacifism, clearly trumped the warfare common in extreme examples of Oppose Harm.

Einstein, however, shared the world stage with a man quickly growing as infamous as Einstein was famous: Adolf Hitler. The swiftly evolving technology of modern warfare allowed Hitler to spread a wave of pathological murder and hatred across Europe and Northern Africa with unparalleled speed. And as it struck at Einstein's own family and colleagues, Einstein's moral fulcrum shifted.

Einstein, who also said "make everything as simple as possible, but not simpler" realized that radical pacifism's plain tautology of "war is always bad" over-simplified life in the real world. Hitler became the mandatory exception to Einstein's radical pacifism, and it became necessary - in Einstein's mind - to violently Oppose this unique Harm. So Einstein, much to the chagrin of the radical pacifism movement, withdrew his universal opposition to war and fled to America where his indirect participation in America's war plans hastened Hitler's fall.  In Distilled Harmony terms, the need to Oppose the Harm of Hitler's virulent pathologies trumped the compromise seemingly advocated in Foster Harmony's support of radical pacifism.

And that dynamic points out an important concept in the natural tension between Foster Harmony and Oppose Harm.  Foster Harmony does advocate fair and compassionate compromise. It does not, as a complete understanding of Oppose Harm reveals, advocate acquiescence to bullies.

Therein lies a balancing act of some sophistication.  You see, a common error is that in our righteous opposition to the harm perpetrated by bullies, we become bullies ourselves, taking arms against the "bad guys."  I am always mystified when I read about wars in which I would think it would be hard to identify the enemy.  Given the lack of uniforms among the civilians, I wonder how during "the Irish troubles" the combatants were able to distinguish a Catholic from a Protestant? On the smoke-filled battlefields of our Civil War, how, at a crucial moment, did you tell a Yank from Johnny Reb? In Vietnam, if there were no uniformed regulars around, how did the locals tell friend from foe?

Those who fought in those conflicts would probably be amazed at my naiveté.  But the point is this - the difference between the bully and the bullied is often simply power, pure naked power. And when that power shifts, often the bullied swiftly seize upon the roll of bully. The desire to carry "opposition" to your adversary to account for previous "harm" overwhelms the mandate to Foster Harmony.

And therein lies the most challenging aspect of this tension between Foster Harmony and Oppose Harm. Robert Burns wrote - translated to the contemporary vernacular - "Would some power the gift give us, to see ourselves as others see us."  We often wonder, from a personal, social or political perspective, how others can so misunderstand us.  I didn't say that!  I didn't mean that! That isn't me!

The tenets of Distilled Harmony don’t require us to accept the negative attributes heaped upon us by aggrieved others.   Certainly, as Americans, where each election seems - if you believe the media - to pit The Devil against Evil Incarnate, we realize that perceptions can be easily manipulated and distorted.  But a first step in the first tenet - Foster Harmony - is to try to "see ourselves as others see us," and in turn to re-examine how we have come to see the other. Such an examination may well reveal a path to Fostering Harmony that allows us to avoid this ticklish business of Opposing Harm.
.