A Mini-Wall - Poetry

A Mini-Wall - which is a mind worm that will not let me sleep until I write it down, 

Poetry

Poetry is less  

a depiction of a reality  

perceived by the eye,  

and more  

the creation of a reality  

conceived in the mind.  

There, in the  

nooks and crannies  

of the cerebellum,  

lives a world of  

aching beauty  

wanting only the  

liberating touch of 
language. 

Metamorphosis

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I had a question from out there on the Schrag Wall blog about the Distilled Harmony perspective on an Afterlife, specifically: "Does Distilled Harmony advocate something like reincarnation?"  Interesting question. Here are my thoughts: 

First, Distilled Harmony doesn't advocate any specific series of conclusions. Rather it seeks to define a harmonious framework within which each of us can explore a variety of questions and reach our own conclusions about living a harmonic life.  So Distilled Harmony defines a path, not a destination.  Hence, all I can really share are the places that I encounter along my own path. 

That being said, do I believe in reincarnation?  Not so much reincarnation in the sense of being born into a new life in this locale, even though some intensely harmonic relationships present an emotional/intuitive argument for “having known you in another place and time.” But I am a bit uncomfortable with a rebirth that seems tethered to this third rock from the sun, or a heaven or paradise similarly linked to our current existence. If, as the chord theory extension of string theory implies, our physical being, our essential chord, is comprised of infinitesimal strings, tuned as best we can to the overarching music of the universe, it seems rather short-sighted to restrict any subsequent expression of that chord to our little tiny corner of the Milky Way.  

Rather, I am inclined toward the notion of a metamorphosis, a transition from our current existence to another. Again, to point to String Theory, a kind of phase transition. The analogy of a moth or butterfly arising from cocoon is helpful: this life - while precious in its own right - is also preparatory to other existences to come, existences not necessarily tied to our current cosmic here and now.  We might well emerge from our mortal cocoon anywhere in the universe and in forms - that while quite “normal” in that "post-emergence reality" - would be inconceivable to us in our current existence. 

I was listening to the National Gallery of Art Podcast “Flights of Angels: The Heavenly Orders in the Renaissance" the other day.  I was fascinated to learn of the hierarchical intricacies that Renaissance artists brought to their depictions of angels - their attempts to visualize entities they had never seen from a place they had never experienced. We are, I would hazard, equally hard pressed to imagine a post-metamorphosis existence. That does not render such an existence impossible, or even improbable.  Again, if we peek at the notion of metamorphosis through the lens of physics we still see nothing to remove metamorphosis from the realm of the possible. The first law of thermodynamics argues against the destruction of matter, but does allow for its transformation - at least within a closed system like the universe.  So shuffling off the Bard's "mortal coil," certainly allows for the notion that we may be shuffling onto another, transformed, coil.  Given the total lack of any scientific data for or against an afterlife; that's my harmonic stance of the moment. 

So, if that is my position, I need to treat it as reality, and consider the issues it raises. One of obvious significance is consciousness. Can we be conscious of previous existences? Or is that not possible in this current "cocoon"? But might we, however, acquire such "multiple-existence consciousness" as a post-metamorphosis butterfly?  Or are some folks - those who have attained "grace" or "enlightenment" or whatever - already able to exercise "multiple-existence consciousness?”  It is a capability some cultures ascribe to shamans, and other “holy figures." 

A less obvious, and somewhat stranger consideration, derives from our current search for "life" in the universe. We seem to be focusing on chemical signatures that indicate either the potential for life, or its presence. But what if "evolved consciousness" is a more accurate measure of meaningful existence in the cosmos than any physical traces of "life as we know it?"  What "signatures" would reveal such consciousness? How would we look for them? And would the ability to find them constitute a kind of time travel, as we might encounter entities that had been cocoons here, but had already emerged as evolved consciousnesses elsewhere and "elsewhen?" 

I don't know.  But then I didn't promise answers; but rather a consideration of the issues that lie along my particular harmonic path. So I'll just keep plodding along. Should I encounter any promising answers, I'll let you know :-)

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What It Means to be Human

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I was watching a National Geographic program last night while cleaning the kitchen. With hushed narration, it contemplated the future of a brave new world that included androids whose neural net processors would blur, if not erase, the line between natural and artificial intelligence; between humans and humanlike machines. The program went on to pose the question, almost fearfully, of “What does it mean to be human?"

The question stayed with me as I wiped off the counters, put the leftovers away, and turned off the TV.  The images of IBM’s Watson beating the best chess and Go players in the world, and a beautiful, helpful, but still kind of creepy android named “Bina48” who self-identifies as “human,” stuck with me throughout the evening, and not in a pleasant way.

But now, at 2:54 AM - according to my very helpful, but not at all human, iPad - the question of what it means to be human seems far less daunting. The answer, in fact, is rather prosaic. Being human is not programmable, because “human-ness" is neither a process or a product. Being human is a feeling. We will never learn to program "compassion." We may well be able to program androids like Bina48 with "artificial compassion," able to mimic compassionate behaviors. And it will be easy to anthropomorphize such creations, as a child imbues a beloved stuffed animal with human qualities.  But, until The Velveteen Rabbit actually becomes "real," draws breath, hops about, and feels human emotions all on its own, even the most wondrous of our creations will remain but pale imitations of the glorious entity enclosed within the fragile wrappings of our skin. 

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La Belle Epoque Americane

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First let me admit to being a devoted fan of the Woody Allen movie Midnight in Paris, starring Owen Wilson.  I will not spoil the plot for you except to note that through a bit of time travel - that seems entirely plausible to anyone who has wandered through the misty midnight streets of Paris - our protagonist, a present day frustrated novelist [Wilson] and Picasso’s mistress from sometime between the World Wars [played by Marion Cotillard] debate which of Paris’s artistic eras really defined La Belle Epoque - the golden age of French art and culture.  Rent it, watch it, love it.  But realize that Woody has borrowed his plot from a common activity from an earlier age. 

During the 1700 and 1800s the youth of England's elite would travel around what is now the European Union and the Middle East seeking the roots of Western Civilization. By the early 1900s they were joined in this "Grand Tour" by the scions of America's emerging 1%, the Rockefellers, Vanderbilts, Morgans, etc. These tours, which could stretch from several months to over a year, were often made in the company of a tutor versed in history, languages, architecture and the arts.

It is informative to consider what these "best and brightest" young people observed on this grand tour - which has been defined as a finishing school for the elite. To what did these future leaders of America and Europe attend?  Well, they were young people in their early 20s so, no doubt, the cafes of Paris and the clubs of Monaco were part of the itinerary. But more important were the high points of European music, art, literature and architecture; the ruins of Ancient Greece and the Holy Land, the pyramids of Egypt.  For a lucky few with a longer reach and even deeper pockets, the Taj Mahal, the Great Wall, and the Imperial City of China.

The point is that even these scions of America’s first Robber Barons, children of unimaginable fortunes didn’t seek out the counting houses of London, the bank vaults of Switzerland, or the treasure troves of Venice. Rather they flocked to the artistic and the cultural manifestations of the Hapsburgs, the Greek city states, the Doges, the Pharaohs, the Chinese Emperors.  

We like to assert that this is America’s Belle Epoque. And there is plenty of evidence. A representative democracy, first human being to set foot on a celestial body other than earth, first nuclear power, home to world’s largest and most valuable corporations, etc., etc.  But for some reason, we still head off around the world to immerse ourselves in the cultural manifestations of the Old World.

And maybe that is part of the problem. We are a “baby nation” when compared to Europe, Greece, Rome, Egypt and China. We are not far removed from citizens who could actually recall the birth of our nation, and when I was born there were still living veterans of the Civil War.  We are a young nation, certainly when we consider our cultural and artistic heritage. We seem to have a great start in music - jazz, musical theater. Some excellent photographers and film makers.  In short we can be proud of our efforts in those media that have grown up along with our nation. But despite some awesome artists - O’Keeffe, RC Gorman and the Hudson River School are among my personal favorites - we cannot point back across the dusty eons to our ancient artistic icons because, well, our eons aren’t all that dusty yet.

We need to learn from those dustier times.  For the most part those awe-inspiring artifacts of the past were state-sponsored.  We lose sight of that because, until our baby nation came toddling along some 240 years ago, the “state” was often a single individual or family. The king or queen, emperor, doge, or pharaoh sponsored the art that came to represent their era - palaces, pyramids, monuments, temples to the gods, celestial ceilings - all these were paid for by the ruler of a “singular head state."  Artists who works became iconic of an age rarely competed on the “open market.” Royal, or wealthy, or privileged “taste makers” decided what artists of every stripe would create.

Our baby nation has taken some brave steps in a new direction. Certainly today’s quasi-royal taste-makers; tech billionaires, celebrities, hedge fund moguls, those still among the economic 1%, can elevate a particular artist by buying, wearing, singing or collecting that artist’s work. And, who knows, maybe big bucks can equate to aesthetic sensibilities, the jury is still out on that.  More comforting is the fact that the boards of the nation’s top tier of galleries also weld considerable taste-making power.  Yet, we need to remember that the Paris Salon turned up its nose at the Impressionists until the late 1800s.  

So perhaps most comforting and far-sighted endeavor of all has been our baby nation’s wisdom in pursuing a more democratic support system for artists. The National Endowment for the Arts and for the Humanities undertake the staggering task of lending support to America’s artists who may not yet have caught the eye of today’s big galleries, celebrities, or the super-wealthy collectors.  These, and other tax support initiatives in the arts and humanities, are our best - new and democratic opportunities - to approach and surpass the ageless art of the ancients, to truly create Le Belle Epoque Americane.

Our elected officials seem a bit conflicted in this area.  The President espouses doing away with these national endowments - at least that is his position as I write this.  Yet, the recently released Consolidated Appropriations Act of 2017, a bipartisan Congressional budget proposal for the rest of this year, advocates a 2 million dollar boost to the National Endowment for the Arts’s budget. Perhaps Congress is looking for our guidance. I firmly believe the national endowments are the way to go, and have written my representatives encouraging them to follow the lead of the Consolidated Appropriations Act and to continue funding those endowments.  I encourage you to do same.

Now, I have to go find a misty, cobblestone street winding along a lamplit river that I can wander along.  No telling who I might bump into, and from what century?

What say Mr. Twain? Vive la belle époque Americane!

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Relationships in Suspended Animation

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I have been reading about intimacy and relationships in the Dalai Lama's "Art of Happiness." In the work the Dalai Lama asserts that compassion is the primary underpinning of all human relationships. That compassion forms the gentle and understanding foundation that supports all positive interactions. In many ways it is the "walk a mile in my shoes," "see the need in the other's life" perspective. As the primary tenet of Distilled Harmony - Foster Harmony - is essentially the same idea, I read along in a "right on!" frame of mind.

The chapter focused primarily on how one should bring a compassionate and open attitude to new or existing relationships. Lovely insights there that I need to mull over a bit more. I’m afraid that may result in some "point the finger at thyself” moments. But I'll put that off for another day.

However, the reading got me thinking about a rather unique set of compassionate relationships that play unique but vital roles in my life. They are what I think of as "relationships in suspended animation" or RSAs.

Back in 1975 Paul Simon wrote a song called "Some Folks Lives Roll Easy." Part of the lyric goes like this:

And here I am, Lord

I'm knocking at your place of business

I know I ain't got no business here

But you said if I ever got so low

I was busted,

You could be trusted

RSAs are the those unique and precious relationships where we can go “knocking" when we are "so low we are busted," even if we "ain't got no business" there.

They are not simply old relationships. We were watching an Midsomer Murders" rerun last night in which the protagonist's daughter engineers a reunion of her "dearest school mates," whom she has not seen for a decade. Not positive how that scans out in the US school system - but these folks seemed to be early 20s. Well, I hope it was storyline considerations that mandated the conclusions, but the reunion was a total disaster in the Midsomer tradition of multiple murders.

RSAs are quite different. We may still be in touch with these suspended animation connections, especially in these days of casual, almost unavoidable, social media connections. We may see their partners, kids, cats and dogs. We may respond with a desultory thumbs up, a like, or a cleverly pre-designed emoticon. Very 21st century. Very McLuhan hot media. Those kinds of interactions do not warrant hitting the "suspended animation" reset button. Remember the rest of Simon's lyric: "You said if I ever got so low I was  busted, you could be trusted." 

Usually we reach out to our RSAs after exploring a pressing issue with our most valued, but everyday, vital sounding boards - spouse, partner, valued colleague, BFF, etc.  Somewhat in contrast to Simon's lyric, I would assert that the issues that prompt us to reach out to our RSAs, need not be driven only by the "so low I was busted" times, they can also be just the opposite - seeking affirmation in a great new opportunity or choice. The important part of the lyric is "you could be trusted." The important aspects are significance and trust. We reach out to our RSAs when we really want additional trusted advice on some important issue in our lives. But we definitely do NOT want to crowd source it to Facebook or whatever bot is crawling our webpages.

So we set aside our lingering fears of rejection and remember that this was, and hopefully still is, a person "who could be trusted." And we begin the search for email addresses, physical address, phone numbers, etc., that will allow us to start the process of "knocking at their place of business."

There will be anxiety associated with waiting to see how, or even if, someone answers the knock. But I truly believe that most often the response will be worth the risk. And the Dalai Lama agrees. Oh, yes, the Dalai Lama and I very, very close .  .  .  .  . Or at least I think we might be, were I to ever actually meet him .  .  .  :-)

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Future Tense

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Worrying about the future 

Makes it quite difficult  

To be happy today.  

That is not to say  

We should not have dreams. 

But too often  

Our slavish pursuit of dreams  

Turns them into nightmares.  

It is difficult to smell the roses  

If we spend our hours in the garden  

Spreading manure and  

Dusting to kill the aphids. 

We must learn to say: 

Today is sufficient. 

This I can appreciate.  

I do not need  

A chorus of angels to sing for me.  

A single mourning dove will suffice.  

I do not need  

The applause of the masses.  

The smile on the face of a friend  

Is affirmation enough. 

I do not need 

To turn the world  

To my way of thinking. 

Understanding my own path 

To peacefulness will do.  

And all this fits comfortably  

Within the soft blanket  
Of today. 

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Schrag Porch: More Selected Oldies

Schrag Porch: Still around 2001, maybe ‘02

Preference Tracking

Contextual information, a la Amazon et al, is a problematic "product." We now allow software engineers to define the links in our personal conceptual space. Imagine sending a poem to your lover using e-mail. The poem appears on her screen surrounded by messages that begin: If you love this man, then you might also enjoy these other guys. . . ."

[A 2017 Update – regulations that would have limited the amount and kinds of personal information various online entities could gather and sell have just been struck down by The White House.  “Everything old is new again .  .  . “]

The “Good” Heartbreak in Love Songs

The heartbreak in love songs is not my heartbreak, and therein lies their beauty. When Eva Cassidy sings "Along the winter shore, all your fickle friends are leaving. But then you know that it was time for them to go," there is a purity of loss that just "hurts so good." 

Certainly loss is loss and empty can be incredibly painful; yet out the other side of loss is a positive empty, because only that which is empty can be filled again. The refilling of a heart made deeper and emptier by loss is just about as close as we can get to grace/nirvana/heaven/peace - chose your own inadequate word. So love songs remind us that the beauty of heartbreak is the promise of the refilling that will follow loss.

The Voice as an Instrument

Today  on  my  walk,  I  listened  to  Elvis: The  Number  One Hits.  A couple  of things occurred to me. First, the man had a simply incredible voice - range, power, fabulous control. Not obvious on songs like "Hound Dog," but on works like "Don't" and "It's Now or Never," the range is operatic. 

Parallel thoughts: The voice is an instrument - not terribly profound, I realize, but the way in which that particular instrument is employed in a work makes important differences. Instrumental works have no vocals so the work is instrumentally structured and communicated. Elvis, Bocelli, Streisand, and Sinatra all foreground the voice as the dominant instrument, hence the lyric is also dominant. 

Much contemporary music seems unable to decide between the need for loud instruments or dominant vocals. Unfortunately the result is often a discordant competition between the two. "Vocalists" hollering over loud instruments. A bit of linguistic evidence: bands have been "bands" both before MTV and after MTV. But before MTV we used to identify the individual members as either musicians or vocalists. After MTV it became quite common to refer to mainstream band members as "performers." Neither musician nor vocalist, they "act" in music videos or choreographed concerts.

[Another 2017 update, I have rediscovered John Denver’s voice. OK, some of the lyrics do lean toward trite, but listen to the voice. Headphones. Just lovely.]

Schrag Porch : An Introduction

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I started posting to Schrag Wall a decade ago. I don’t know how many of you have been along for the whole ride, but even if you have been here for that ride, it isn’t really the whole ride. The composition you see as Schrag Wall actually began back in 2001 or so when I began writing the book The God Chord: String Theory in the Landscape of the Heart. [Drop me a note and I’ll send you an e-copy. It provides some vocabulary that makes the early posts easier to understand.] The note-taking system I used back then was to write a phrase or sentence that I felt should go in the book somewhere on a sheet of paper and I would tape it onto the wall - hint, hint - above my computer monitor.  Many of those notes eventually became the blog Schrag Wall - but the blog didn’t start until 2006. So there are 5 years of notes floating around here on my hard drive or up in The Cloud somewhere which never - or at least probably never - made it onto the blog.

A few entries have appeared on Schrag Wall over the years that reveal my perhaps exaggerated fondness for the front porch of my childhood home. I wrote, not long ago, about never having found the place where I felt completely at home.  The porch is probably the exception. However, a bright red 8 x 12 foot [maybe?] slab of concrete doesn’t quite seem to fit the mystic notion of “coming home to a place you’ve never been before.”  It was more like a place I had always been - maybe a launch pad to that mystic home that still eludes me? Anyhow, I feel a digression coming on, so let me rein in a bit.  If you see a post that is labeled Schrag Porch instead of Schrag Wall, it means that I have wandered back into the “lost years” between 2001 and 2006 and pulled a "feels like home" golden oldie off of the front porch for you.  If I can find a specific date, I’ll post it. Otherwise just think “old stuff.”

I notice that many of the earlier works were much shorter than the current Wall posts. You may find a good thing :-)

Here are a few very early ones from 2001:

Rescuing

A surprising number of rescuers are pulled under by those they would save. The lesson is not "let them drown." The message is "Throw them something that floats, but keep to the shore.”

Possession

Implies maintenance.

Awkward Neighbors

Genius and insanity live in the same building. Sometimes they wander into the wrong apartment. If you love those chats with genius, you must also learn to tolerate the occasional bouts with insanity.

Emotion and Passion
Passion is not an emotion in its own right. It is rather a degree of intensity that can be brought to any emotion. Unmodulated passion dominates any chord of which it becomes a part. Unmodulated passion draws notes, situations, and people into a composition that is dominated or defined by the emotion that unmodulated passion has hybridized. Modulated passion intensifies the chord but does not overwhelm it.

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Trump's Backhanded Boost to Science

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Whoa! Wait, wait, wait a minute. You’re going to spill coffee all over your lab coat. Hear me out here. Yes, I know that the  White House just released a budget that puts America’s science profile roughly on  a par with Paraguay - unless you are part of the military, or own a construction company along the Mexican border. But you see, that is exactly the point.

It s important  to realize is that there is a significant degree of freedom in finding yourself in the middle of an argument that you simply know you cannot win.  I often find myself embroiled in one such repeating “discussion” with some of my students. I have been teaching about media for almost 40 years, stretching from helping them set up a darkroom to develop 35mm film to current discussions about the “black mirror,” aka smartphone, that seems permanently welded to their hands.  It is that bit of technology that lies at the center of an intractable argument.  You see, despite the fact that my classes are about technology, the students in my classrooms are permitted the use of nothing more sophisticated than paper and a suitable, non-internet-connected, marking implement.

Occasionally a student will assert that such a technology prohibition is “not fair,” by which they actually mean “stupid, old-fashioned, and mean.”  I point them to the rather sizable body of research that indicates that students attempting to “multitask” - e.g. answer email, text, follow sports scores, etc., - during class, invariably retain less course content, perform more poorly on test and quizzes, and distract their fellow students. To which they respond, “Well, I don’t believe that.”  Because I am "the teacher" the prohibition stands. But I do not believe for a moment that I have “won” the argument, that I have changed their minds. As in most cases, their belief will trump any data that contradicts that belief. 

And that it why one has to think twice about the value of employing data-based science arguments with members of the current administration.  Think about it: the new head of the Environmental Protection Agency doesn’t believe that the environment really needs all that much protection. Believes than “clean coal” is not an oxymoron.  The new head of the Federal Communication Commission apparently believes that “net neutrality” defines the no parking zone around the tennis courts at his country club. And the Oval Office, despite the total disagreement of the American Medical Association [AMA], the American Hospital Association [AHA], the Congressional Budget Office [CBO], and the American Association of Retired People [AARP], and a growing list of Republicans, still believes that the ill-defined Donaldcare is necessary to rollback the equally ill-defined predations of the demonized Affordable Care Act.  These are the strongly held beliefs of people in positions of power. Arguing data with them is as futile as my fruitless attempts to convince my smartphone-addicted students that the world will be unaffected, and they will be better informed, if they go off the grid for 75 minutes.

So, in the current climate, what do you do to “make American science smart again?” Well, there are at least a couple of options. You can attempt to confront the irrational triumph of belief over data by complaining to everyone within ear shot about the administration.  I have friends who, for the last 8 years, were able to blame everything - including the number of handicapped parking spaces at McDonalds and the pace of lines at airports and supermarkets - on “Obamacare.”  So far as I could tell, their complaints never changed the speed at which they got their Big Mac, their carry-on stashed above their seat, or their produce bagged.  They just made others around them uncomfortable.  

There is a better way.  But we have to look over our shoulders to find it - so hop into the WayBack Machine, Sherman, and set the date for April 15th, 1874. [Wooowoooowoooowoooo]. 

“Gosh, Mr. Peabody, who are those guys with the paintbrushes?”

“We call them Impressionists, Sherman. Though until this date they were better know as failures.”

Well, you get the idea.  In the 1870s any artist who was anybody had to display their work in the Salon de Paris.  The problem for one hardy crew of renegades - including Claude Monet, Edgar Degas, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, and Camille Pissarro - was that the powerful group of critics who controlled acceptance to the Salon did not believe in the painting style that would come to be called Impressionism.  Those few Impressionist paintings that had previously been accepted  by the Salon were hung high on the walls out of sight, or in a remote room the size of a closet, or were soon removed altogether.  It eventually became obvious to our merry band of paint slingers that it was pointless to confront the current beliefs of the powerful. So on April 15th, 1874, they opened their own competing exhibition.  The reviews were mixed. But the point is that there were reviews. The Co-operative Company of Artists, Painters, Sculptors, Engravers, etc. - as they called themselves - had slipped out from under the thumb of the gatekeepers of the Salon de Paris.  They sold a few painting at the exhibition and some of the artists went on to enjoy productive careers during their lifetime. But I doubt that even the most optimistic among them could have predicted the joy ride the future had in store. Malcolm Gladwell, in his book David and Goliath, estimates that if the 160 to 200 paintings displayed at that first renegade exhibition were to be sold in the current market one would need somewhere around a billion dollars to acquire them. 

So, what can we take away from our little jaunt in the Wayback Machine?  Particularly when we think about the government and its relationship to science? Well, first we simply need to accept the fact that the “Science Salon” currently in power in Washington will do nothing to advance the cause of scientific research. The appointed heads of the government agencies designed to oversee and advocate for science and technology are neither scientists nor technologists. Since they neither understand, nor believe in, the scientific method, the results of scientific research become, for them, flexible talking points in policy discussions.  Hence, evolution - a scientifically demonstrable fact, and Creationism - a set of specific Judeo-Christian theological concepts - become different, but essentially parallel, “beliefs” that can be debated. In the minds of this new Washington Science Salon many other long established clusters of scientific fact can become alternative beliefs that are up for grabs.  In 1874, the Impressionists decided that they could not be true to their art and continue to bend their work to the arbitrary dictates of the Salon.  So they took their game elsewhere. If the current Science Salon makes it impossible for scientists to be true to their art, perhaps it is time for the scientific community to take their game elsewhere.

I do not make that suggestion lightly.  I am well-aware that the power the current Washington Science Salon holds over the community of research scientists is drawn from the same dual sources as the Salon de Paris - fame and fortune.  Whose work gets published? Whose grants get funded? To a huge degree the professional success of research scientists depends upon the wishes - and beliefs - of the Washington Science Salon.

So where would science go if it were to take its game elsewhere? Well, obviously it needs to find a locus that has deep pockets and an interest in scientific research. Hmmm.  Sounds a lot like Silicon Valley to me.  I know, I know. The idea of panhandling to the likes of Facebook, Alphabet, Amazon, Microsoft and Apple kind of creeps me out as well.  But then I thought, creepy as compared to what? To assure full disclosure I need to state that I see the issue from a campus perspective. 

I work in, have always worked in, a university.  It is a family tradition. Counting my father and two uncles who spent much of their lives in college classrooms, the family has racked up more than a century in front of students. Add in my sister who advised university students for 30 or so years, and we may push 150 family people-years in a campus environment. So, yes, that is my perspective. And when it comes to the relationship between the university and the Washington Science Salon it is a perspective with which I find myself growing increasingly uncomfortable. 

Back in January of 1961 President Eisenhower warned of the "military industrial complex," an intertwining of military and business interests that could come to compromise or overshadow the needs of, and benefits to, the general population. I doubt he would be pleased with how poorly we have heeded his warning.  The lines between the government, the military, business, and the university are becoming faint enough to be nonexistent.  And not surprisingly it is money that has blurred the lines.  

The brightest stars in the academic firmament these days tend not to be those asking the most interesting questions or providing the most tantalizing answers.  Rather they are those individuals or “teams” who can craft the grant proposals that fit most neatly into the categories that funding agencies - most often member agencies of the various Washington Science Salons - wish to encourage. To complete the analogy, they are the artists who routinely have their works accepted by the Salon de Paris. They paint what they are suppose to paint. They think what they are supposed to think. Maybe it has always been so. Maybe that was what spooked President Eisenhower back in the midst of the last century. I would like to believe that that was not always the case, that once universities were the places where the best and brightest followed the most creative twists of curious minds. But if it were once so, sadly, it is no longer. Grantsmanship has turned us into salesmen. The Salons are the markets and the product for sale is our intellect.

Once we accept that sad fact, turning our back on the Washington Science Salon doesn’t seem quite so bizarre. Surely our universities still have more in common with the curiosity that drives the entrepreneurs of Silicon Valley than we have with the beliefs of the conservative political fundamentalists who control, at least for the next few years, the handouts of the Washington Science Salon. Why not pitch genuinely motivated “pure science” proposals to the Silicon Valley Salon? Some of them already have the mechanism in place. Sure, they are in it for the money, but using the current funding models, so are the universities. Silicon Valley at least seems to realize that the market is driven by innovation, and that you innovate by turning the unfettered creative intellectual exploration of wide ranging ideas into something that may become products and processes that people want. And furthermore, why do we need to limit ourselves to an alternative Salon run by companies, even if those companies are larger and richer than most nations?  We are a nation “of the people” aren’t we? How about crowdsourcing for science? 

These are radical changes. Changes we would never have seriously considered had the Trump Administration not decided to gut American science by creating an environment that is toxic to academic freedom. These are changes that most universities would, and will, initially resist since most large universities have patterned their research and fiscal practices and policies to stay in lock step with the big funding Salons in Washington. You do not bite the Salon that feeds you. But what do you do when, as currently seems the case, the Salon declares that not only do you need - as has long been the case - to study what the Salon decrees you need to study; but now you also need to present and publish only the answers the Washington Science Salon believes to be true? To break the chains of exclusivity currently enjoyed by the Washington Funding Salons and their slightly less dominant, but allied corporate kin, universities would have to devise new models and processes designed to support relatively unfettered research. But surely we can muster the will to do that.  Just how deep does our institutional avarice and intellectual cowardice really run?  Hopefully not that deep. 

Trump seems determined to throw science under the bus - to tell the eggheads “You’re fired!”  Certainly we need to resist those appointments and budget cuts through the traditional routes of political activism. But the reality is that despite those efforts there seems to be some freefall in the future. The least we can do is give some serious consideration as to how and where we choose to land.

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Finding Home

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In Rocky Mountain High, John Denver sings of "coming home to a place he'd never been before."  Denver and co-author Mike Taylor seem to be echoing the gentle, poetic notion that you can "come home" to a place where you were not born, nor had you ever lived. You look around, you take a deep breath and wonderfully, everything just feels right. You are home. 

I don't doubt that.  It must be almost two decades ago that we hired a young woman with the ink barely dry on her Ph.D. from the University of Utah. She was a western gal, through and through. However, not long after joining our faculty she made her first visit to Ocracoke Island on the Outer Banks. Upon returning she declared that she had "come home." Nothing she has done since would contradict that assertion. So again, I do not question the notion that one can "come home to a place you've never been before." I am just jealous. 

I have lived in Raleigh since 1981 - so 36 years. Both my daughters were born here. My professional life is defined by my years at NC State. Still, it doesn't really feel like "home" in the mystical sense of Denver's paean to the Rocky Mountains. Don't get me wrong, it has been, and continues to be, a nice ride. It just doesn't have the spiritual, transcendent "home" feeling that Denver ascribes to his mountains. No place does. But that is probably my fault. I may have set my sights a bit high, or perhaps in the wrong direction altogether. 

You see, the events that define a Denveresque sense of "home" for me are not so much cases of where, as they are of when. Scattered throughout my life are moments of intense harmony, when everything feels perfect, when I am "home." We, as spiritual creatures, have a tendency to turn the places where those harmonic moments occur into sacred spaces.  So we have shrines to which we make pilgrimages. "Home" in Denver's sense turns that notion upside down. "Home" becomes a semi-sacred place where harmonic moments occur more frequently than anywhere else in the world. In Denver's world, you do not travel to the shrine. The shrine is the home. I simply have not found mine. 

Those moments that do seem to manifest a Denveresque kind of "home" for me do not share a common locale. Many are harmonic moments that I recall from my childhood, and I realize that I tend remember those events through rose-colored synapses, perhaps even to the point of bending historical fact to fit the tenets of Distilled Harmony. Still, to "come home to a place I've never been before," I would have to encounter a place that would echo those recalled harmonies. 

For example, my memories of rainy days on the front porch in Springfield, Ohio demand that "home" would need to be rainy - like this:

Rain

It is a gentle, cleansing rain.

The air is softer for it. 

The acrylic carved landscape 

Fades aptly to watercolor. 

Insects fight its somnolent call 

To buzz and bumble apace. 

I find myself stirred not so much to sleep, 

But to its less insistent cousin, 

A quiet nap.

Drops are interrupted  

High in the canopy. 

Dancing off leaves  

They gather in crooks and crannies 

Until they overflow  

Into bark's craggy channels 

And dance a zig-zag path  

To the forest floor.

It is a softly soaking rain

Filling the valley at lambing. 

The bright blush of motherhood  

Is rinsed away in rills among the clover, 

Trickling down to brooks, then streams, 

To rivers that lead to the distant imagining  

That is the sea. 

But then some magic moments in the donkey pasture above Clearwater Ranch in Philo, California demand it be sunny - like this:

The Meadow

If you lie 

On your back 

And hold very still 

With your eyes 

On the blue  

Bowl above, 

You may hear 

A quiet sort  

Of curious buzz, 

Preceding  

The funniest 

Bumblingest  

Bee 

Who bumps 

From flower to flower 

Before disappearing  

Back into the sky 

Trailing her buzzing 

Behind her. 

A ladybug eyes 

An Everest of grass 

And slowly  

Begins her ascent. 

Upon claiming  

The peak 

She spreads  

Spotted wings 

And soars off to 

A sheltering tree. 

Thus she avoids 

Toasty fates 

For her brood 

And decades of 

Deep therapy. 

The mockingbird  

Knits  

A complete  

Symphony  

With songs stolen 

From here  

And from there, 

That echo about 

In the morning's  

Soft light 

Accompanying  

The sweet  

Scented air.

Nowhere is sunlight 

Transformed 

Into life 

More magically  

Than 

In a meadow,  

In the morning.

Perhaps you see my problem. It seems that there are folks lucky enough to have a particular place they call home. A physical space where everything feels right. The mountains, the sea, even a particular structure on a particular piece of land. Home is right there. They can point to it.

For me home is in my head. 

"Lucky you!” I hear you saying. "You carry “home” around with you. Wherever you go, you are home.”  True to a certain extent.  Home is up there between my ears.  But strangely I can’t always get “there” from “here.”  That transcendent space of “inner peace” has a way of playing hide-and-seek with us.  "Ha! Ha! Here I am between your ears but you can’t find me for love nor money!”  

I keep looking.  Reike, meditation, a big sheet of blank paper with lots of colorful markers, calm and gentle music, fighting the inclination to enter into debates with those seeking victory or angry affirmation instead of insight.  All the time carrying “home” around between my ears. From the outside it looks a lot like napping, but inside - whoa! We’re climbing the Himalayas in here! 

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Composing the Symphony of Our Life

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One of Pandora's most irritating features can also be one of its most endearing. When you create a channel - say for Dan Fogelberg - you don't just get Dan Fogelberg songs. You also get songs that Pandora's algorithms and human assistants decide are "in the style of" Fogelberg.  It is sort of like the difference between a painting by Rubens and a painting from Rubens's studio.  A “real” Rubens is worth millions, the studio piece - a fraction of that.  But, as I said, while sometimes being irritating, Pandora channels can also serve up an occasional treasure. 

Sometime last week I was listening to my Burl Ives channel, which has become a sort of a hodgepodge of "feel good" songs - good voices, nothing harsh. Must have been at night because I had my headphones on. Anyhow, I was suddenly immersed in an incredible version of “Amazing Grace.” Superb voices, wonderful clarity of diction. A capella. It was like a tall glass of ice water on a muggy summer day. Just gorgeous.

So I grabbed my iPad and learned that the artists were a female a capella group from Brigham Young University called Noteworthy.  And that they truly were. So, as I often do, I created a Noteworthy Pandora channel to se e what Pandora’s algorithm/human chimera would come up with. As with Renaissance painters, the studio didn’t quite live up to the master.  Pandora chose to emphasize the fact that Amazing Grace, a song heard from honky-tonks to carnival midways all over the country, is actually a Christian hymn composed in 1799 by John Newton, a former slave trader turned clergyman.  So the Noteworthy Pandora channel runs with those roots and tosses in a lot of gospel music of uneven quality into the Noteworthy channel, making the channel far less, well, noteworthy.

Yet, sacred music of any persuasion often provides incredible acoustic experiences.  And that makes perfect sense in a Distilled Harmony view of the world.  Distilled Harmony follows string theory to an assertion that the universe is literally made of music.  The vibrations of an uncountable number of strings constitute the music of the spheres. So music aimed at expressing a unity with the overarching harmony of the universe often exceeds the musical norms of the day simply because it aims higher than the expressions of popular music, which often restricts itself to more prosaic topics..

That is not to say that secular songs cannot hit those wonderful heights.  Consider opera - classic Italian opera.  I am always amazed by the transcendent voices, astonished that they can be so perfect.  It helps that my Italian is currently limited to the Rosetta phrase, "Is that the red bicycle?" since those breathtaking arias often translate to something like "Alas, the Toad Prince approaches, we must flee!"  

However, I did have an experience similar to the "Amazing Grace Pandora event" with a secular song.  It was a long time ago, because the clock radio went off.  Old technology, former life.  Anyhow, I suddenly became aware that "Somewhere Over the RainBow” was floating around the room - but it wasn’t the classic old 1939 version that Judy Garland sang in The Wizard of Oz - this was much better.  I know for some of you that is blasphemy - but this really was much better. The artist was Eva Cassidy, a prodigious, yet fragile, vocal talent tragically struck down in 1996 by melanoma when she was in her early 30s. Her channel - unlike Noteworthy’s - remains towards the top my Pandora list.  She drifts from sacred tunes to those prosaic pieces that chronicle the foibles of the human heart.

Not that there is anything wrong with love songs. Far from it. For many, falling in love is indistinguishable from a transcendent spiritual, religious experience. And songs that speak to either event, no doubt, share many characteristics.

Shakespeare, who often gets it right, makes Juliet 13 years old, with Romeo seeming not much older.  Apparently during those emotionally turbulent years ‘twixt 12 and 20 we lay down a storehouse of songs that will remain with us all our lives. Some recent studies indicate that we store music - those 12 to 20 songs included - in their own special part of the brain. In the last few weeks of my older brother’s life - he died of a glioblastoma in the early 1980s - he found conversation quite difficult, but he could sing 1950s rock and roll songs note and letter perfect.

But here is the point of all this: The central premise of distilled harmony is that the universe is both harmonic and sentient. And that the primary objective in our existence is to bring our own chord - manifested in music, thought, word and deed - into harmony with the over arching universal chord.

Thanks in great part to digital technology, we can now surround ourselves with music much of our daily lives, and that music becomes the soundtrack of our broader life. It colors and influences how we think, how we feel, who we are. We should pay close attention to it. It is no more "just music" than hate speech, violent video games and movies are "just talk and games and movies."  Music is even more central to our identity and worldview than those rants and entertainments because we are absorbing music even when we "aren't really listening."  

I wondered why, in some of my meditation music channels, there were gongs seemingly randomly spaced throughout the compositions. One explanation I have since encountered is that the gong is a "Stop. Look. Listen." marker. Attend to what is in the space around you. The physical environment, and the acoustic environment. Really pay attention. I would assert that it is harmful to live your life in a soundtrack that is hateful, chaotic and confrontational - even if it is "only" a speech, a tweet, a song, a movie, or a TV show.

So stop, look, listen.  It is your soundtrack. Make it the one in which you really want to live.

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The Artist and The Muse

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I have always believed that all artists go through cycles of experience and interpretation.  It isn’t that those are mutually exclusive activities, rather it is that when we are deeply immersed in one, the other tends to slide onto the back burner.

If you have just spent the day prowling the strange, wonderful, confusing callis of Venice, topped off by some squid ink pasta and local white wine, the odds are that you won’t be able to do much beyond stashing away a few random thoughts and images before you crash. And that is fine.  And on the flip side, if you have managed several high-energy creative hours word-smithing, or painting, or composing, or choreographing, or whatever your muse dictates - it is equally unlikely that you will seek out activities that demand your “artist focus.”  Rather some meditation, or mindless dancing, something that lets the creative juices rest, regroup, ferment for the next focused effort.

So if you hit a time - a day, a month, a year - when the muse seems to have taken a vacation, that is perfectly alright.  Go walk the Appalachian Trail - or maybe just a bit of it.  Buy a puppy and teach it to talk. Buy a parrot and teach it to bark and roll over. :-)  You get the idea.  I have always told my students that no one chooses to be artist. That life can - and often does - make you crazy, but only if you let it.  If the muse has chosen you, realize that it is a partnership. The muse will make demands of you, but you too can make demands of the muse.

And it is important to realize that the muse is the Art - not an individual.  Oh, I know, history is rife with tales of one artist’s muse or another. Manet's Victorine Meurent, Picasso’s Marie-Thérèse Walter, Stiegitz and O’Keeffe - though who was the muse and who the “musee” in that relationship remains an open question.  But I wonder if the person was truly the muse? Or was the "human muse" the person whose relationship with the artist enabled him/her to enter a transcendent space in which the essential muse in the guise of a particular medium - poetry or prose, paint, music, dance, stone, clay - was manifested in the joint artistic, creative actions of artist and muse.

The point is that experiencing the world around you is a mandatory stage in the life of any artist - without experience what becomes the subject/object of your art? We all have had a mentor - if only in middle school - who told us “Write what you know.” And you cannot truly know something without experiencing it. [I will back off here a bit. I do not advocate cutting off your ear, or engaging in other self- or other- destructive behavior. Remember your muse can make you crazy - but only if you let it.]

Another important aspect is we can easily forget the “message of the moment.”  To quote that well-known scholar of literature and art, Willie Nelson, “Pickin’ up hookers instead of my pen, I let the words of my youth fade away.” The more general, less hooker-oriented, message here is "don’t trust your memory." And here technology can really be an aid.  I don’t generally advocate for a particular software application but I will make an exception in the case of Evernote.  Evernote [Green square with a black elephant head in the center - get it? Elephants never forget?] Is a note taking app that lives simultaneous on all your devices. Mine currently resides on my phone, my iPad, and my MacBook.  I am rarely without at least 1 of those three devices, and on all three I can enter - via keyboard or voice - notes.  I can then later access those notes on all or any of those three devices.

True, my notes are often too cryptic for me to understand. There is one there now in the “scratchpad” file that says “Existential product design flaw. Only one front burner. Hundreds of back burners.” I’m not really sure what I meant - but at least that much is there for me to mull over.

I would also like another technology tool to help with writing, and am trying to find a grad student to help out - I call it My Boswell: Here is what currently exists over on Evernote:

My Boswell or Fishing in the eddies of the Internet.

As older media are drawn into the converged digital stream, their original form is often appropriated by hobbyists and artists.  For example when the instant photography niche was appropriated by digital cameras and then smartphones, the previous "king of the mountain," Polaroid, quickly fell into obscurity. However, photographers who loved the unique polaroid palette, banded together in a group called Project Impossible to create cameras and papers capable of producing "polaroid" images in sizes up to 24 x 20 inches. And though it seems that, after a few years, Project Impossible proved to be just that, there is no reason to believe that such repositioning of traditional art forms will cease as the internet continues to evolve.

It might seem strange to view "writing" as a traditional form that is being repositioned. But I believe such a case can be made.  Polaroid was repositioned not because "pictures" had fallen from favor.  Far from it.  Literally billions of photographs are uploaded to the internet everyday. Rather, polaroid was repositioned in order to assure the survival of a particular type of image, of a unique form of artistic expression.

Similarly there are probably more words generated every day now than in the hundreds of years since the invention of movable type. But the technologies that support the creation and distribution of those words are overwhelmingly slanted in support of fast and short bursts - tweets, texts, and other evolving forms.

I am interested in developing an application that acknowledges that word processing has become the preferred platform of many serious "long form” writers. And so it makes sense to develop a digital app that can advantage writers who wish to create long form works in a digital environment.

The problem:

One of the hats I wear is that of an essayist. In current parlance that is often seen as the same thing as a “blogger."  That is not quite right. A blog really just defines a niche in digital space where the owner of the space can “post" a variety of messages, messages which may share only the fact that they are distributed via the internet. So a video blog shares digital video. Ello is a social media platform that shares a variety of two dimensional works.  By asserting that I am an essayist, I affirm that I write essays. Essays are text messages longer than tweets or social media posts, but shorter than short stories or, certainly, novels.  But always based on the written word.  I have been writing my primary text-based blog "Schrag Wall" for more than a decade, the last seven or eight years on Blogger.

The total page count for Schrag Wall over that period is well over a thousand pages.  So the problem becomes that I will be mid-essay and will suddenly become convinced that I have said this better before.  But where is the file that holds that earlier, perhaps better version?  Clicking the magnifying glass at the upper right-hand corner of my Mac simply launches an exercise in futility. If I enter a search term into the Spotlight Search tool it will return too much information - documents, files, applications, weird truncated things from anywhere on my machine, my back-up drive, etc.

The solution:

I want to scream “Boswell! Get in here!” James Boswell, (1740 - 1795), the 19th Laird of Auchenlech was a biographer and diariest. His biography of his contemporary Samuel Johnson is often pointed to as the pinnacle of the biographical form. Boswell knew everything about Johnson’s voluminous papers.  I need a Boswell for my computer, I need an app that will find the files I need, but ignore the ones I don’t need. I have learned from an old friend who spent his life among such critters, that what I am talking about is an “automatic indexing tool.”  Several proprietary ones exist - Lexis-nexus and Proquest use them - very expensive.

I want MyBoswell - and yes, that will be the app’s name - to be sleek, powerful, unobtrusive and inexpensive, if not free.  A quick click, and there are all the files to which I have given Boswell access that contain my search terms.  And I write on, editing, including or ignoring.

So for an artist the experience and the expression are simply two sides of the same artistic coin. Both necessary, neither more important than the other. We may feel that we are spending an inordinate time on heads. Not to worry. Tails will turn up in its own good time.

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The Wonder of Words

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I have a friend with a literary bent who once asserted that the use of profanity was merely the mark of limited vocabulary.  Over the years I have come to realize that she was right.  Mind you, I’m not saying that I have abandoned swearing altogether. It is not as if, when heading for the bathroom at 2 AM and smashing my overly-sensitive foot against the door jam, I shriek,  “Oh, most high creator of the universe, if you would, please consign this copulating architectural feature to Dante's nethermost circles! Such exquisite agony!" No,  like many of us, I still burst out with the more prosaic: "GD f-ing door! Damn, that hurts!" But that is an expletive, not a conscious linguistic choice - not many considered synapses firing there. 

On the other hand in everyday, and certainly in professional conversation and composition our vocabulary is an indication of our education, our credibility, and more than we realize, our nature and personality. So we should choose our words carefully, with specific intent. In my field we speak of linguistic accommodation - adjusting vocabulary, sentence structure, speech, vocal patterns, gestures, etc., to accommodate the expectations of others.  In truth, in the academy we often take the practice to rather absurd extremes, peppering our conversations with the latest jargon to make it perfectly clear that, yes, I have read Professor Fuzzywort's latest work on the bandersnatchian dynamics inherent in the evolving, but still underrepresented, jabberwocky.

The point is this: words are tools and the more tools we have in our toolbox the better we can express our, initially inarticulate, feelings to a variety of audiences. There are certainly enough tools out there.  The Oxford English Dictionary flirts with 180,000 entries while the Global Language Monitor asserts that English acquired word number 1 million back in 2009. One shudders to think of the academic cat fights fueled by those wildly varying numbers. But that is not where I'm heading. I am more interested in how we acquire and use whatever words we do have.

For example, let us consider poetry.  And here I must admit a bias.  I am well aware that poetry can easily be a language of rage, a voice of the powerless against the powerful. A call to battle against injustice, bigotry and hatred. And, often, it should be.  Consider Bob Dylan, a wandering, renegade, youthful, troubadour whose calls to conscience bounced back decades later bearing a Nobel Prize for Literature. Maya Angelou, Langston Hughes, and the Gutheries, Woody and Arlo - rough-edged poets to stir the blood and raise the banners of resistance.

But no longer for me. Once, perhaps. In years gone by - pre-Internet days - a colleague and I engaged in a contest of "columns of righteous indignation." The idea was to craft an essay of overt confrontation on issues of social consciousness, but to do so with sufficient grace to allow the editor of our local paper to actually publish it. My partner in aggressive sarcasm has, sadly, passed on, but even were he about to egg me on, I think I would pass.  As I wander into my 7th decade, the call to vindictive prose grows faint. It is simply not worth the inevitable anger, the stomach acid, the spikes in blood pressure, the restless nights wrestling with the Furies of "Damn! What I should of said was .  . "

Instead, in what I hope will be my first full decade of Distilled Harmony, I think I prefer to explore the role of an agent of calm.  That role carries unique demands if one seeks to create not only prose, but also poetry of calm. When it comes to poetry, I tie myself firmly to the first and  second tenets of Distilled Harmony - Foster Harmony and Enable Beauty.  And that effort demands emphasizing a vocabulary of the calm; a tall order in this age of cyber bullying, internet trolling, and policy debates conducted in angry bursts of 146 characters or so.

Fortunately, the more gentle portions of my vocabulary hail from previous centuries.  It is mostly my mother's fault.  You see, in the basement of the modest home in which I was raised, stood a large green bookcase filled to overflowing with books. Books of all shapes and sizes, books that were already "golden oldies" in her childhood. Novels from the late 1800s, the early 1900's. Books written when grammar still held sway and when the rough edges of life were written gently. James Oliver Curwood, Gene Stratton-Porter, Harold Bell Wright, maybe a touch of Zane Gray. These were not, mind you, Dickens or Austin - though they did prepare me for later encounters with those more complex voices. Rather, they were in many ways the pulp fiction of their era. The plots utterly predictable, the stereotypes would curl your hair. But these were my earliest composition tutors; purists when it came to the rules brought to parsing prose.  Remember diagramming sentences?

And the words! Oh my, what a surfeit of words! Consider this conclusion to Curwood’s The River’s End (1919):

"He looked away into the shimmering distance of the night, and for a long time both were silent. A woman had found happiness. A man’s soul had come out of darkness into light.”  

OK, so it scores off the chart on the “sappy scale,” but for me, a youngster who would polish off a couple of the far more prosaic Hardy Boys or Nancy Drew mysteries before lunch it was, well, mysterious. Multisyllabic, with the sentence construction just a shade askew.  And then, not much later, I wandered, leaning heavily on Longfellow’s even older shoulders, along the  "shores of Gitche Gumee, Of the shining Big-Sea-Water.” So, while Dickens and Austin were lurking just around the corner, if you held still and listened ever so closely, there - did you hear it? It might have been the faint echo of an approaching Melville.

And speaking of words, there might be a few too many in this post already so let me close with an analogy [which started out shorter - but, oh well .  .  . ]:

When I was a kid in maybe 3rd or 4th grade, part of the Fall ritual was buying school supplies. My buddy Dan and I would hop on our bikes and pedal down the alley to Patton’s.  I don’t know if there was anything further to the store’s name, for us it was always just "Patton's." It was in many ways a remnant of the old general store era, as was Mr. Patton himself. He was, in our callow eyes, ancient - so, what, maybe 40? Slight of stature, with hooded eyes that would follow you suspiciously around the store. There was an old open-top soda machine. The bottles were suspended in icy water and you would put in your money and slide the bottle along a serpentine track to the open spot where you could pull out the bottle. YooHoo Chocolate Soda! I vaguely remember notions - thread and stuff.  And candy - lots of candy. Baseball card bubble gum.

But in the Fall it was school supplies. Somehow, no doubt as a result of a list distributed by the school board, Patton’s carried “pre-packaged school supplies.”  What this meant was that there were paper bags labeled - 1st grade, 2nd grade, 3rd grade, etc., into which Mr. Patton, or one of his minions, had sorted the various tools we would need to confront the challenges of the coming year. Tablets, rulers, pencils, etc.  Starting in, oh, maybe 2nd grade, nestled among the tools was a tin of Prang watercolors. A black metal case with eight basic colors and a brush.  Those eight colors, and whatever soup we could make by mushing them around, defined the palette we employed in "Art class." If you couldn’t make the “right” color with that limited palette and our even more limited abilities - well, it just wasn’t going to happen. After “Art" we would move on “English” and the dreaded spelling/vocabulary test. The comparison to our Prang watercolors is direct and accurate. Here in “English” we began to construct the linguistic palette with which we were to describe the physical world unfolding around us and the emotional world bubbling within us. And, for the most part, we got the linguistic equivalent of those 8 basic colors.

Now, let us jump ahead 50 or 60 years. According to Google Earth the alley still runs north from my old house, but there is now a State Farm Office where Patton’s used to be.  Prang still sells an 8-color watercolor set, but as we edit our contribution to the roughly 1 billion digital photos uploaded to the Internet daily, or create original works in any digital paint program, the idea of having anything less than "millions of colors" is absurd. We click our cursor over a portion of an image and the ubiquitous color wheel appears, inviting us to select the precise shade we desire from a palette limited only by the resolution of our screens. However if, upon completing the image, we want to move beyond simply sharing it, and tell our friends what we were thinking or feeling, why we composed the image the [way we did, we access our Twitter account or some other text app usually limited to 146 characters and/or spaces. Not words. Characters or spaces.] - that is the number of characters between those brackets that intrude upon the preceding sentences.

Consider for a moment the radical difference between the chromatic palette provided for the most basic visual computer program and the extreme restrictions placed on the texting applications; those applications that keep my students' eyes endlessly affixed to the glass rectangles attached to their palms. With their linguistic options so crippled, is it any wonder that “texters” have reverted to extreme contractions or modern pictograms aka emoticons or emojis? Those unique constructions speak well of texting creativity within severely limited communication spaces. Yet those same linguistic accommodations give me pause concerning the future of the more arcane genres of poetry and prose.

There really is only one way to build a rich, functional, linguistic palette.  You must read. You must read a lot. Novels, biographies, non-fiction works, histories - all of it. Oh, I get a number of “word of the day” emails. I enjoy crossword puzzles. But neither of those linguistic “vitamin pills” empower our own expressive skills. To jump back to the visual palette analogy - words of the day and crossword answers are like color swatches. They provide colors in isolation but say little about composition, about communication.  Similarly films and videos slide swiftly across our consciousness, requiring multiple viewing or a visit to the "quotes from" Internet site to add that awesome bit of repartee to our personal, functional stash of words

So we must read, and be especially thankful for the authors who make that an enriching and enjoyable experience, for ourselves - and for today's "teched-out" children.  I suppose one should be Catholic to nominate someone for Sainthood, But, if permitted, I would like to nominate J.K. Rowling for that, and any other relevant honors. 

It was approaching midnight on the night of July 7th, 2000.  When the clock struck 12 it would be July 8th and Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire would be released to the public - all 616 pages of it. I was pretty far back in the line, my lack of costume marking me as a muggle of the first order.  But it was a magical night, so I was less startled than I might have been otherwise to see a copy of the book floating toward me through the hazy southern night.  It was not until the book came to rest a yard or two in front of me that I realized it had feet, and behind the open book was the intense face of a little girl. She seemed not much larger than the book itself. Yet, you could almost see the words being sucked off the page into her enchanted eyes. Thank you, Ms. Rowling.

So writing well, conversing widely, articulating - for ourselves and for others - those thoughts that define us, requires words, lots and lots of words. We also need to practice slapping them up against each other in unique sentences to explore which have natural affinity and which rasp against each other - fingernails on a literary blackboard.

All the images in my coloring book - Color Me Chilled Out - began as doodles, and eventually grew into more complex and colorful works.  Every post here on SchragWall started life as a verbal doodle, an “I wonder .  .  .” moment.  A phrase that eventually acquired more words, longer sentences, analogies of varying clarity, until finally - at long last - I stop and send them winging off to you.   

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