Monthly Archives: July 2018

Collections

by in Hmmm..., Music | 17 Comments

I have some friends who are serious collectors.  And by “collecting”, I don’t mean useful things, like a carpenter collecting woodworking tools or a scientist collecting reference books. I’m talking about those family room or office displays of hand-painted thimbles or old mountaineering tools, or walls covered in old license-plates or rusty saw blades.  So I have to ask myself why people endeavor to collect such obsolete, or otherwise completely useless artifacts?

Before uttering the obvious responses, that these things inform us of our past, or that they somehow give us a connection to our history or to our culture, or that they have value as historical artifacts — do they really? Is that rusty buck-saw hanging over the fireplace really anything more than the application of anachronism as art? How does the information contained within a bunch of old books on a book shelf have more value than the digitally-scanned, Google-books version? And what of memorabilia, fashion, or art, or of those aspects of a collection that might be hidden away?

I’ll admit to two small collections of my own, amassed at an earlier time in my life.  Neither contain anything I would consider as functional or as having any great intrinsic monetary value, though I suppose a few items among their constituent bits might be difficult to find.  Regardless, while thieves would be foolish to take them over something like my television, I would be far happier if they did take my television.  So there is a value to them, if only in some personal way.

Among friends (and some family), I know of several far more impressive collections.  One of them I actually consider worthy of museum space.  These include various magnificent books with pages ranging from images of contemporary art to inherent historical documentation, woven fabrics and the apparatus used to create them, antique firearms, and old mountaineering equipment.  And that museum-worthy one I noted consists of the many varying forms in which gold can be found, some of which are quite amazing.

From walls to coffee tables to bookshelves, they are all to at least some extent displayed.  So like clothing, though perhaps worn only among specific friends and acquaintances, I’ve come to the conclusion that most such collections are material expressions of their owners’ characters. In some way, each is a manifestation of what someone intentionally adopts as a visible obsession of sorts, a focal point of expressive energy. And if that’s indeed the case, then a collection also reveals much about an owner… practical, life-changing, powerful, artistic, handmade, mysterious…

Both of my own collections were started many years ago, one when I was around eighteen or nineteen years old, and the other when I was in my early twenties. The first is a type of ancient, patterned bead, my interest inspired by reading the reflections of a mountaineer familiar with Himalayan cultures. The second is an obsolete implement of warfare, steel arrow-points known as “yanone” or “yajiri” that date back to Japan’s feudal past. Neither collection is all that large; rather, I concentrated on a few specific, unusual, or high-quality artifacts.

These days, I only rarely add anything new to either collection.  The arrow points were largely an artifact of college, a time when I engaged in competitive target archery for several years.  I didn’t realize it then, but the sport was a way to empty my mind for awhile.  The endless repetition of such precise and focused movements eventually resulted in a reflex to stop thinking.  To illustrate, I once released an arrow into a mirror during a photo-shoot when I heard the “clicker” on my bow snap over the arrow-point at full-draw.  I had no intention of releasing the arrow, but there was actually nothing I could do to prevent it.

At any rate, the arrow points were a logical extension of my lifestyle at that time.  They echoed the Japanese aspect of my family history, something I was just coming to grips with in those days.  But they also represented both my self-discipline, and a means of escape from its demands.  And perhaps just ironically, they also hinted at where it would all take my life.  So what do I collect now?

I like to think that I’m not a collector of things anymore.  Rather, I’m more interested in ideas and experiences.  The conscious shift occurred during the thirty-months I lived in Thailand and Cambodia, a place where I endeavored to collect as little in the way of material possessions as possible.  It was a part of resetting things, shaking-off the accumulated detritus that had preceded my arrival.  But looking around my office, I realize that it’s not entirely true that I no longer collect anything.

Under the ancient beads perched over my dad’s old roll-top, and beneath the old arrows and points hanging on a wall, there is another, slowly accumulated collection.  It now spreads across one side of my office and into a corner, pieces stacked atop one another.  Some of its parts are laying on the floor in a functional but somewhat disorganized mess. A lot of it’s old, and has needed to be repaired.  Something resting on the roll-top was a recent, serendipitous acquisition, a highly coveted but utterly anachronistic artifact encountered while in Japan last year.  Other pieces are unique, either modified or created to be my own.  Disused bits are tucked away on a high shelf, occasionally swapped in trade for something else I want.

It’s a usable, but admittedly antiquated collection of tools for creating music.  I lack both the talent and the skill to employ it all to much avail, but I work at it regularly.  And much has seen itself loaned out to various, far more competent and talented individuals over the years.  So I suppose it represents the last decade of my life, a time when I’ve become more cautious about that which I endeavor to make a part of my own history.  And it’s also a pleasant way to empty my mind for awhile… and without leaving any unintended holes.

 

The Economics of Delusion

by in Boundary Behavior, Hmmm..., Identity, Philosophy | 10 Comments

It was a beautiful morning, so I took my usual four-shots of espresso outside while carefully sifting the garden for any cherry tomatoes and Serrano peppers not yet discovered by the native wildlife. And that was that. Present Self of that morning, having suddenly discovered an immediate pleasure in creating the world’s freshest, instant mouth-salsa promptly joined the wildlife and lost all sense of responsibility for Future Self’s inevitable condition.

An hour later, innards cramping due to the massive consumption of un-buffered MSG, capsaicinoids and distilled CNS stimulants, it took two tall glasses of soy milk to mask the result. It would be another hour before emerging into the late morning heat for an unnecessarily unpleasant run through the gathering crowds of tourists and construction traffic. Future-Self become Neo-Present-Self was less than happy at her temporal predecessor’s utter lack of consideration.

The philosopher, Irving Copi (1917-2002) distilled the philosophical conundrum of identity-over-time with the statements:

  1. If a changing thing really changes, there can’t literally be one and the same thing before and after the change.
  2. However, if there isn’t literally one and the same thing before and after the change, then no thing has really undergone any change.

Various philosophers have sought to resolve this logical conflict through differing approaches. Most notably, those addressing human consciousness in a non-dualistic way (not assuming that there exists some continuity of “spirit” or “soul” separate from the body), conclude that from moment-to-moment we maintain our individual identities as “information”. That is, Present Self and Future Self are something like two separate, but (mostly) congruent triangles. The information that describes a consciousness in one time is equivalent enough to that which describes the consciousness of another time to at least appear congruent.  And so, while they are indeed different, they are also (mostly) identical, for all practical purposes indistinguishable, and consequently interchangeable.

Notwithstanding that Quantum Mechanics might have some objections to two things being “identical”, it still begs the question of our moment-to-moment identities. Are we just similar people at different times, merely creating a transitory identity from some arbitrary collection information contained in a memory? And if so, what does this say about delayed gratification or sacrifice? What does the person who exists at one point in time have to gain by giving up her own spontaneous pleasure for that of some as yet non-existent future “self”?

Perhaps it’s little more than a delusion that keeps Present-Me from simply engaging in one monumental act of irresponsibility, bathed in the intoxication of momentarily undisciplined delight. After all, if some future “self” will simply be expecting that the Me-of-Now will have taken care of her problems for her, then she’s the very definition of a “lazy parasite”, and utterly undeserving of my sacrifice! It’s like investing in a life-insurance policy for someone who merely expects that I shall have died by the time they’ll need the pay-out.

Still, the weight of “consequence” hangs over my currently Present-Self, at least somewhat tempering any otherwise sociopathic tendencies toward that unknowable future being who will call herself “me”. So perhaps it could be argued that ego is the cardinal form of compassion, giving-a-damn about some as yet non-existent person who will only know of my own existence from a memory. Or maybe that’s enough.

Sometimes (though admittedly not often), I feel a little sorry for Twenty-Something Self… or Selves. To be sure, she… or they had some good times. But there was also an awful lot of grinding through life in an effort to provide something for the me of this time and place.  So I’d like to give a sincere, “Thanks!” for allowing a current sense of “self” the delayed gratification.

Alas, there’s no one around to thank anymore… so perhaps a little celebration instead?

—

Photo: “IKUM!”, Guitarist for the Japanese punk rock bands, “Red Bacteria Vacuum” and “Jungles”.

Air-Cooled Memories

by in Boundary Behavior, Photography, Ride | 3 Comments

Reaching a point in my life where I’m starting to genuinely consider whether I want to continue with some of the activities I started in my perhaps somewhat less judgmentally sound youth, riding a street-bike is among the things on my list.  I’m a pretty cautious rider anymore, not especially prone to youthful outbursts of, “Hey! Watch this…”, and there’s some 28-year old surgical-wire still in my right shoulder that occasionally reminds me why.  Regardless, a lot of the joy of riding is in the roller-coaster aspect, albeit without rails or a seat-belt.  At any rate, a recent conversation had me looking for some old photos…


I acquired the old Ducati 900SSCR from my college days in a trade for a Kawasaki ZZR600.  It spent much of its first year in my care spread across the floor of my then boyfriend’s garage while he worked on re-welding a crack in the frame.  Granted that the fastest I’ve ever traveled in a land vehicle not on rails was on the ZZR, this bike was absolutely terrifying.  It’s essentially the machine that Hunter S. Thompson was talking about in, “Song of the Sausage Creature“.

Ducatis in those days had notoriously bad electrics; consequently, it was once suggested that I’d named the bike, “Start! You piece of…”  And yet despite it’s moniker, a seat reminiscent of fine Italian hardwood, and my only barely having the hand strength to hold the clutch at stoplights, it went on more than a few road trips.  Ultimately, it long outlasted both my boyfriend, and then graduate school before ending up in the hands of a Ducati Mechanic already intimately familiar with its checkered history when I traded it (and a handful of cash) for a brand new 916… the infamous, “Garage Queen”.

 

After returning to the US many years later, a Ducati S2R-1000 was the answer to nostalgic memories of the old 900CR and its air-cooled V-twin.  Slightly more “civilized”, it was nevertheless a “Ducati”.  It had the same obnoxious dry clutch as the old 900 and needed the same constant valve-adjustments… as well as having similar electrical issues.

Regardless, I ended up putting quite a few miles on it.  But as a high-maintenance machine, it could be a little frustrating wanting to go for a ride while it was in the shop.  Nowadays, despite having owned four Ducatis over the years, I’ve succumbed to the reliability, if not the sanity of a Japanese-built motorcycle (they at least issued a safety recall for the bad voltage regulator on my current ride).  Still, doing a quick search while writing this, there’s a really good-looking 900CR for sale in California…

Should You Meet a Buddha…

by in Culture, Dad, Family, Hmmm..., Japan, Luminous Aether, Philosophy | 15 Comments

“Should you meet a Buddha, kill him.”
–Dubiously attributed to the 9th-century Chan-Buddhist monk,
Linji Yixuan.

I never did like that saying.

Linji Yixuan was the founder of the “Linji school” of Chan Buddhism. Chan is a Chinese form of Mahāyāna Buddhism focusing on enlightenment through meditation. In Japanese culture, its traditions have become fused within contemporary forms of “Pure Land” Buddhism, while the Linji school would eventually give rise to the Japanese, “Rinzai” form of Zen.

My dad practiced Pure Land, and my mom at least followed along. But growing up in America left me with much confusion regarding religions and the esoteric belief systems they require. Dissatisfied with the dogmas, I eventually declared that I wasn’t wasting any more of my time with, “…ridiculous superstitions,” regardless of the source.  And that was that… though I would later come to regret a few of my words.

Despite its simple underpinnings, Buddhism as a world religion hosts the single largest collection of canonical texts, with tens-of-thousands of known manuscripts existing across its major forms. Theravadan tradition includes the “Pāli Canon,” an assemblage of manuscripts sufficient to fill a good sized book-shelf. The Mahāyāna sutras, the canonical sources behind my father’s Pure Land, account for another eighty-five volumes.  And yet, most independent scholars attribute few of their words to those actually spoken by Siddhartha Gautama, the man who came to be known as “the Buddha”.

At its root, however, there is a certain honest clarity in Buddhist philosophy, which in brief proposes that attempting to hold on to things in a universe where the one constant is change can only result in misery.  And it posits that truly recognizing ourselves as a part of the universe itself can serve to resolve this conflict.  Everything else, all of the traditions, the dogma and ritual, the unquestioned adherence to beliefs are simply the trappings of culture in various approaches to practice. In a subtle hint at his own perspective, my father once encouraged that the religious traditions were simply a vehicle, like a boat in which to cross a river. Pursuant only to a portion of the journey, they could be left behind upon reaching shore.

Reflecting a more direct approach to Buddhist philosophy, Zen attempts to strip away the bulk of the dogma. There aren’t any spiritual beliefs, esoteric ceremonies or appeals to the supernatural involved in its practice. Consequently, it isn’t really a religion. Rather, it’s merely a practical means toward personal enlightenment through focused and disciplined thought, or “meditation”.  And in the case of Rinzai, much of that meditation may include deeply pondering a kōan, or a statement that elicits some “great doubt”.

Most people associate “Zen” with an image of sitting in silent stillness for many hours, blankly ruminating while the world outside goes on unacknowledged. But the spirit of meditation, known as “zazen” in its sitting form, actually follows more along the lines of the gay-activist and writer, Marty Rubin’s proposition that, “Most people are too busy thinking to notice what’s going on right in front of their eyes.” The ultimate goal of Zen meditation is actually to enable a perspective that can be used to more fully experience life.

It’s a built-in aspect to human nature that we instinctively define and categorize the world, starting with our conceptual definitions of things and how they change over time. Our minds thus reduce the matter and energy that constitute our universe into the more easily manipulated nouns and verbs of language, symbols for that which they represent. It’s an inherent aptitude that results in the extraordinarily powerful ability of humans to make and to communicate predictions about the future, creating an emergent repository of information that throws a wrench into the very workings of natural selection.

For better or for worse, it’s that which allows for the human creation of everything from medicine and jetliners to weather forecasting and “civilization”. But it also means that we easily come to exist within a personal world of mere symbols, disconnected from their origins. And this makes us easily tricked. We perceive a loved one in a photograph, feel danger in the words of a politician, fight to the death for a banner… mere representations of realities perhaps only imagined.

The whole point of Zen is very simply to find clarity by seeing past the symbols. It’s the difference between the color “red” and the pure experience of redness.  And it’s accomplished by clearing the mind of that clutter of representations, the “emptiness” in Buddhist practice.  What’s left is direct experience without interpretation, or “enlightenment.” Whether it represents simply a recognition of that which underlies our emergent selves or something more deeply spiritual is left to the recipient. But ask anyone who has had even the most momentary contact with this kind of experience, and they’re likely to tell you that it changes everything.

“Should you meet a Buddha, kill him.” Of course, the expression isn’t meant to elicit murder. Rather, it’s an imperative not to abandon the vessel when the destination is merely glimpsed.

When I was old enough to understand, my dad confided that he didn’t really believe much of the dogma himself. He just didn’t want me to abandon what it promised so early in my life. But he did think that there was some deeper spiritual aspect to his own experience, brief glimpses of a greater “soul” from which we all emerge. It seemed to bring him great satisfaction in his life. And I know it accounted for the source of much of his compassion for others.

To be honest, I don’t know if any of what my dad perceived in the workings of the universe is true, though I don’t discount the possibilities. My own experiences with Rinzai weren’t especially productive; although, I discovered that it was far easier than I had expected to sit for long periods… if I could just get my back up against a wall. Beyond that, several years of disciplined competitive archery during my college years combined with decades of distance running have provided me with a few brief, unfiltered glimpses… enough to understand that the profound nature of direct experience isn’t simply a mere sentiment expressed through some anachronistic manuscript.

Beyond that, I reach the limits of my ability to share. But that’s not the point anyway. Rather, it’s that every life is filled with kōans, contradictions of meaning in life upon which to meditate… and we should. We should ask ourselves the hard questions of why certain things in our lives are so important, what causes us to fear change and to remain attached to our pasts, and who we really are when all of the dogma and unquestioned adherence to a belief in a symbolic reality is stripped away. If nothing else, it might at least result in a momentary glimpse of what it means to, “Be here now”… no killing of anything at all required.

And as suggested elsewhere in this immense bookshelf of rhetorical canon known as WordPress… if you do just happen to meet a Buddha along the way, it might be better to greet him with, “…maybe a high-five.”

Credits to:
Marty Rubin and Leapingtoes

Image from a stained glass window at Wat Santikiri above Mae Salong, Thailand.

Negentropy

by in Environment, Luminous Aether, Philosophy, Photography, Science | 4 Comments

negentropy
noun | ne·gen·tro·py \ ne-ˈgen-trə-pē \

negative entropy; an increase in order; biological self-organization:

Physics
A localized reduction in entropy and corresponding increase in order.

Biology
The export of entropy by a living thing to keep its own entropy low.

Information Theory
The difference between maximum possible entropy and actual entropy.

The concept and phrase “negative entropy” were introduced by physicist, Erwin Schrödinger, in the 1944 book, “What is Life?“; later shortened to “negentropy” by physicist, Léon Brillouin.

Three-years into the back yard project…

Last summer saw the removal of nearly three-tons of debris before the new shed went up.  I’d have aimed the camera lower, but the masonry patio and walkway weren’t yet completed when the (now irrigated) wisteria were in bloom.  It’s what to expect when you buy a house built concurrent to the era of Brady Bunch architecture.  But hey, it’s all just the application of a little free energy.

Entropy

by in Boundary Behavior, Culture, Death, Hmmm..., Numbers, Philosophy, Science | 8 Comments

entropy
noun | en·tro·py \ ˈen-trə-pē \

2
a : the degradation of the matter and energy in the universe to a state of inert uniformity
b : a process of degradation or running down or a trend to disorder

—

Way back in my physics days, I spent some time studying the ideas of the Austrian physicist and philosopher, Ludwig Eduard Boltzmann (1844–1906). Boltzmann was one of the great mathematicians and thinkers of his time; although, he wasn’t necessarily so well regarded by many of his peers. Today, Boltzmann is best known among those who study the sciences for his development of “statistical mechanics,” or the use of probability to describe the properties of matter. His ideas are central to the “Second Law of Thermodynamics,” which essentially says that things in the universe tend toward states of increasing disorder, or “entropy.”

Contrary to prevailing thought at the time, Boltzmann’s theory assumed the existence of tiny bits of matter which were more-or-less free to move about in a random manner. Today, we know of these bits-of-matter as vibrating “atoms” and “molecules.” But at the time, their existence wasn’t necessarily accepted theory. Nearly all of the German philosophers as well as many of Boltzmann’s scientific peers refused to accept this idea, instead viewing matter as a continuous kind of “stuff.”  Regardless, Boltzmann’s ideas are now considered central to the modern scientific understanding of how the overall behaviors of very large systems are determined by the microscopic behaviors of their individual parts.

—

Volunteering to host some musician-friends visiting from Japan left me plying parts of the city of San Francisco over the last week. If you’ve never been to San Francisco, it’s an interesting urban center. The city’s long been known as a place that’s welcomed its gay and divergent communities with a certain progressive pride. But there’s a great deal more to its Pacific-rim, cosmopolitan nature. A multitude of races, religions, languages, foods, cultures, and widely ranging economic strata move through the city together in a sort of unscripted ballet of humanity.

Sitting next to the window of a coffee shop near the entrance to the city’s “Chinatown,” the urban center’s character became rapidly apparent. Passersby ranged from the generic image of a “businessman” to a pierced and tattooed woman sporting a fluorescent pink Mohawk, and ethnicities representing most of the planet Earth.  All peacefully crossed paths along a strip of concrete only a few meters wide while a busload of tourists pointed cameras into the seeming chaos, focusing lenses upon the vibrating atoms of a society.

In a way, it’s all somewhat reassuring, perhaps indicating that people of such difference can, in fact, live together in relative peace. But I’ve known this city for many years, so I’ve also seen how it’s changed over time. Like most cities, there have always been areas that locals know to avoid. Though for the most part, I think the city is still fairly safe. But walking along the streets, there’s definitely a slowly rising undercurrent of anarchy and decay.

Even the tourist spots seem to have become more run-down, covered in grime and filth. A surge of street-dwellers combined with the typically American lack of public sanitation has resulted in a tangible health problem. The genuine buskers have become overwhelmed by “performing” panhandlers. And there’s now an ethnic undertone to a certain disregard for norms of social cooperation… people simply walking into traffic, sitting in the middle of sidewalks, lining the subway entrances, shooting-up in public…  In many respects, I saw far less social decay in even the rougher parts of ChiangMai.

Running the gauntlet of men loitering at the entrance to the subway, we boarded a Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART) train back to our hotel near the airport. Moving our way back to some unoccupied seats, we found that they’d had the cushioning torn from them. My Japanese guests laughed and took some pictures while I pushed the doors open to the next car, where the air conditioning was apparently not functioning. Moving through the humid stink to the next car, we took some seats near the door.

As the train emerged into a beautiful late summer evening sunset, laughter again punctuated the scene as my visitors tried in vain to take some photos through the rail-car’s filthy windows. I’d have been embarrassed had my guests not been so much younger, still enjoying the novelty of their peculiarly American “adventure.”

Back home, the group expressed a desire to see around the area… another tourist domain in the Sierra Nevada mountains between California and Nevada.  Leaving early the next morning to beat the 4th-of-July week crowds, we hiked down a trail that drops through the forest into a circle of boulders surrounding the sandy shoreline of a beautiful beach. My Japanese guests were at once stunned by the beauty… and by the garbage littering the place. Over the next half-hour, they spontaneously took it upon themselves to gather together a small mountain of debris ranging from fast-food wrappers and beer cans to clothing and plastic flotation devices. It suddenly occurred to me where to take them next.

Bodie was a California “boom-town,” rising abruptly out of the 1876 discovery of substantial amounts of gold in the area. By 1879, the remote eastern Sierra town had about 2,000 buildings and a rough-and-tumble population of around 6,000 people. Today, it’s a “ghost town.” There wouldn’t likely be anything at all left of this place if not for the state of California declaring it a historical site. What remains of the town, a few dozen abandoned wood and masonry buildings and an extensive mill-works that are kept in a state of “suspended decay” lay scattered across a high valley about 15-miles into the hills east of the main road through the area.

My guests must have taken hundreds of photos while wandering through the ruins of the old town. Looking down one of the old main streets at the small crowds of tourists also wandering its otherwise deserted passages, it occurred to me that the place was a sort of Disneyland of social entropy. Peering through a dusty window at an abandoned sewing machine sitting beside the slowly decaying remains of some old furniture, the place holds the same morbid attraction as a dead body, but on a larger scale. One-by-one, individuals had abandoned their hopes, slowly sapping the place of its energy until it finally died entirely.  The fate of a very large system was determined by the microscopic behaviors of its individual parts.

—

A very wise person here once commented that it’s probably not a good idea to expend much energy contemplating such matters. There’s not a great deal in the way of inspiration to be found in the inevitability of decay, unless perhaps you’re a young Japanese punk-rocker. And quoting Boltzmann himself: “The most ordinary things are to philosophy a source of insoluble puzzles. … The source of this kind of logic lies in excessive confidence in the so-called laws of thought.” (–Boltzmann, Theoretical Physics and Philosophical Problems, p164.)

Regardless, Boltzmann would die by his own hand, hanging himself during a vacation near Trieste. His suicide was largely attributed to the many years he had spent in frustrated defense of his approach to describing the workings of the universe, ideas ironically verified in experiments that took place only shortly after his death. Fittingly, his monument bears the inscription:
“S = k. log W”,
Boltzmann’s own formula for the calculation of entropy.