spokendays

Darko Fritz announces his participation in spokendays. I reflect on this intriguing project, tracking the sonic resonances:

time passing. this project touches on that inexorable passing. where inspirated and aspirated breath divides life into periods. periodic demarcations like the seasons, like the sun risings and settings. months are social demarcations that frame our social existence. not shared everywhere on the globe, they represent one system of social order. how else could one sing and chant time passing? by facing the sun each morning and saying to it, upon appearance above the rim of self-seen earth, welcome! from the rested and warm-skinned body.

Twelve international artists were each invited to choose a month in 2007, and to record an audio file of themselves speaking all the days of that month, ie: Monday, January 1st, Tuesday, January 2nd, etc. Those audio files were forwarded to me where I added additional sounds or musical elements in response to what they had submitted. Each artist spoke their days in their native language. The result is a conceptual experiment to achieve a ‘verbal’ calendar. Each month’s audio file (MP3) is available for online listening without charge or registration. A good quality computer sound system or headset is highly recommended. Future ‘spoken Days’ years will feature speakers from various commonly-held occupations, beliefs or interests, ie: actors, politicians, blue collar workers, and so on. This project was not motivated by politics, religion, or financial goal. It was independently funded by only the time spent in the process and by the generosity of the various international participants. — Jerry King Musser

vholoce

another Furtherfield review:

All phenomenon have the potential of being converted into infinite data-streams which become an archive of knowledge through which it is possible to organize social behavior.

Vholoce is one project in a long line of projects which seeks to creatively engage the ubiquitous data-streams that are flooding our virtual world. The rising flood of data is useless without sensible display. Visual (and sonic) display of digital data is a fundamental contemporary issue. But what is sensible display? Using a data stream as a basically random source for visual display is one way to play with the stream. The syntax of visual display (possibly) becomes the site for expression by the creative producer. The data-stream source, the method of (and reason for) display, and the overall creative process need to be interrogated in order to find the basis for type of digital engagement.
more “vholoce”

CSM

Meet Rafael in the morning, speaking about the political economies of soft game authoring; lunch with Steve, we decided the last time we saw each other was 21 years ago when I walked out of the corporate headquarters of Union Oil Company of California, times past, and catching up on the intervening years. Then a wander around the CSM campus to see what’s new. Strange vibe. Being no stellar student, but Sara, the Geophysics Department senior secretary recognized me (surprise!), got Dr. Keller’s email address. Wander around the campus looking at the new buildings, and allow place to seep in, an overlay of history, into senses. Thomas Hall, second floor, the first dormitory experience, 30 years ago right now. Formative? De-formative? Time past, time passed. Never conscious of the eyes of a 30-year alumni scanning the place back then, did it ever happen?

One of those fall afternoons, brilliant sunshine, Colorado blue sky. Down to Clear Creek, once a gravel ditch, now a sculpted kayak, mountain bike, jogging, and strolling corridor. How things develop in the West. To this standard of tidiness.

Dinner with Rick, Sally, and Natalie.

Crisis of the now. Crisis of being in the past moving into the now, and on into the future past.

long high day

floating through a high country day. mountain bike ride after breakfast. up to the trail head into the West Elk Wilderness. back out, Sage keeping pace even on the downhills. pack up and make the circle around the north rim of the Black Canyon, and down through Delta. saw a gal parked having a picnic. single bike on the rear rack, like me. wondered about how one crosses paths. make a stop at the Ute Indian Museum.

it’s far from present Ute lands, and most of Colorado was once populated by one or another bands of Utes who are now reduced to three small reservations in Colorado and Utah. another dreadful history of crimes against humanity. are we really better than that now?

seek wisdom, not knowledge. knowledge is of the past, wisdom is of the future.

to go on a vision quest is to go into the presence of the Great Mystery.

the soul will have no rainbow if the eye has no tear.

another stop at the Gunnison National Forest main office to check out any information they might have, as well as inquiring about jobs. looks like everything is through the JobsUSA website. one path to travel. have to look into that again when online next. Ridgeway seems interesting again, with some commercial buildings for sale. question is, what to do in these small towns to survive? could computer consulting work? construction is no longer an option with the L5 disk acting up, could be major trouble in the near future. website construction? teaching high school? vocational tech? uff. re-forming trajectories seems at the same time daunting and full of possibility. how can it be problematic when so many others are employed? and so many have managed to gather so much capital in this country. but the path between scraping poor-ness and abundant wealth seems so … arbitrary. there is no clear specifications except for self-confidence.

end the day almost at tree line, up Bailey Creek, off Lizard Head Pass in the San Juan National Forest. the luxury of dispersed camping (finding places up 4×4 roads that are not developed, but make excellent camp sites) is appreciated. no cost, only fuel to get there, and that expense suggested that instead of an immediate return to Prescott, that I take several days and enjoy being back in Colorado and check out several new places. in Curecanti Creek, I saw only one car in two days, and up this rugged route, doubt I’ll see anyone until I head out and down and south west tomorrow. feeling a little guilty being out of phone range, but have no messages except one from Gary, so, figure all is well in the greater telecom world. make a short video of sunset on a nearby peak. and in the process of reviewing the tape after finishing it, I discover that all the footage that I shot of Kevin’s memorial in NYC in March had that effing bad audio. really disgusting — Bill, Stefan, Martha, Rosemary, and others talking about their memories of Kevin. the glitch seems due to bad mike contacts, or a dirty record head. it pops up randomly, and has affected some other critical footage previously. and the pondering on the idea of getting a 3-ccd hd prosumer cam comes back up and/or a Nikon prosumer digital still camera. what else to do with capital? shopping is a dumb way to make a cash flow (negatively). better to keep the investments growing and multiplying. and purchase only items that can definitely be positive cash generators.

whatever the end result, work is the next necessary step to confront. that and the June 18th Month of Sundays performance. finishing up with the house, packing things in a way that maintains some viability to several pathways of action. but meanwhile, watch the sky and the land.

famous fantastic mysteries

worldly remains floating through networks. shut down most incoming stuff several weeks ago. mailing lists, discussion lists. too much input. material purging via ebay. helping Uncle Al get rid of all his sci-fi ‘zines from the 40’s and 50’s — he was expecting to get a dime for each copy. so far, I’m averaging $5 for each one. seems to be a market. we’ll split the profits. it’s a hell of a lot of work, scanning in the (often VERY interesting) covers, and getting it all ready for auction, but fascinating as well. wishing to have all the stories as digital pdf’s but that would require the destruction of the volume (staple bindings and fragile paper). Isaac Asimov, Robert Heinlein, Poul Anderson, John Brunner, Damon Knight, Lester del Rey, John Christopher, Clifford Simak, Fritz Leiber, Cyril Judd, Willie Ley, and on and on. each volume with several of these and other luminaries, cranking out their visions of the future of the burgeoning post-war science-driven society. strange planets, but familiar problems. heroes and half-naked (or half-space-suited) ladies. but always a clean future with simple solvable problems, that is, if science is brought to bear as a passive-but-dominant element of the social situation. the stories are less timeless than some works of fiction because of this expansive naivete of that time and its specific vision, but reading deeper than that, a few have substance that holds up to the 60 years fallen away from Imperial cowboy beginnings.

He had no way of knowing that just as there are winds that blow through space, so there are winds that blow through time. Such winds may be strong or weak. The strong ones are rare and seldom blow for short distances, or more of us would know about them. What they pick up is almost always whirled far into the future or the past. …

… Sometimes we may be blown about by whimsical time winds without realizing it. Memory, for example, is a tiny time breeze, so weak that it can ripple only the mind. … — Fritz Leiber

Beckett

en route from Grand Central to Bedford Hills. lunch with Anthony at the Empire Diner, we walk down there from meeting at Penn Station in the morning. an eatery where I used to go on occasion when working in Chelsea. long time passed. groups of tourists stop on the corner and take photos of the diner. it’s a land mark. marking the land which can’t actually be seen — it’s all paved over and dug up. so, the city as one big land mark, and nothing else. no land left to mark. we mark time with dialogue. conversations which are continuous registrations, trajectories from the past. launching into an immediate and present future. stopping at way-points to register the locus, then rocketing onward. upward. bouncing through some Beckett. ah, Beckett — when the privilege of having a conversation about Beckett? rare. to explore the textures of a literate vision of such elemental power, circumscribing the moment, being, and the perfect intertwining of both to create life. hmmmm, been in the country too long. though the sight of stars is nothing to feel inferior about. they leave different traces in the self than the traces of known and historied voicefull lives.

while the infrastructure labors along. trains slow and imprecise. although arriving in the same places from day to day, the time of arriving changes the place to another, given the slowness. barely able to stay on the track.

through Harlem with hardly a look into the structures of the past years, the rennaisance, onward, northward. up the Hudson, on the Hudson River Line. I’m inna New York state of mind-full-ness. greasy face from lunch of fried veggie lintelburger.

back to thinking about Kevin. what to say on Wednesday, the memorial. thinking how that maxim of avoiding any pre-tension. that is to be remarked. as well, the power of being to invoke collective presence.

The GenerativeCollager

As a test-review for furtherfield neoscenes reviews a random online project by Sandra Crisp:

Hmmmm. Recalling a review I did some years back for kunstnet in Oslo, it seemed interesting to pretend for a moment I was a novice user who had just received a URL of interest from a good friend who’s critical opinion I trusted.

A novice user perhaps wouldn’t be using FireFox on a Mac, that’s clear. More likely Safari. When I attempt to go to the project from the introduction page, as the Java applet loads, waiting, waiting, until finally I get an error window with the following text:

WORKING VARIABLES NEEDED FUNCTIONS ***************************************************
// SET UP ALL THE VARIABLES FOR THE IMAGE BLISTERING void setup() { // CREATE THE TIMERS AND IMAGE COLLAGERS size(WIDTH,HEIGHT); t = new Texter(width,height); timer = new Timer(500); collager = new Collager(); collageCount = new Counter(3); // <- CHANGE IMAGES PER TIMER COUNT //load a sound and loop it soundA = loadSound(“SURSHLOOP.Wav”); //this loads the sound soundA.Loop(); …Snip… Timer.SetTarget(floor(random(500,1500))); // <- CHANGE IMAGE DROP TIME } // TELL THE COLLAGER TO PUT A RANDOM PICTURE ON THE SCREEN collager.Paint(); // MAKE IT ALL NICE AND SMOOTH smooth(); } loadPixels(); performDblBuff(dblBuff, pixels); updatePixels(); t.Paint(); //updatePixels(); } / ******************************************************

Somehow I want to add the e.E.Cummings text:

this is the way the world ends,
this is the way the world ends,
this is the way the world ends,
not with a bang, but with a whimper. more “The GenerativeCollager”

George Saunders

George (Saunders) leap-frogging a parking meter somewhere on Sunset Boulevard, sometime in the year that Orwell’s O’Brien tagged when the lesser shall have a future controlled by the greater, thus:

How does one man assert his power over another, Winston?

By making him suffer. Obedience is not enough. Unless he is suffering, how can you be sure that he is obeying your will and not his own? Power is in inflicting pain and humiliation. Power is in tearing human minds to pieces and putting them together again in new shapes of your own choosing. Do you begin to see, then, what kind of world we are creating? It is the exact opposite of the stupid hedonistic Utopias that the old reformers imagined. A world of fear and treachery is torment, a world of trampling and being trampled upon, a world which will grow not less but more merciless as it refines itself. Progress in our world will be progress towards more pain. The old civilizations claimed that they were founded on love or justice. Ours is founded upon hatred. In our world there will be no emotions except fear, rage, triumph, and self-abasement. Everything else we shall destroy everything. Already we are breaking down the habits of thought which have survived from before the Revolution. We have cut the links between child and parent, and between man and man, and between man and woman. No one dares trust a wife or a child or a friend any longer. But in the future there will be no wives and no friends. Children will be taken from their mothers at birth, as one takes eggs from a hen. The sex instinct will be eradicated. Procreation will be an annual formality like the renewal of a ration card. We shall abolish the orgasm. Our neurologists are at work upon it now. There will be no loyalty, except loyalty towards the Party. There will be no love, except the love of Big Brother. There will be no laughter, except the laugh of triumph over a defeated enemy. There will be no art, no literature, no science. When we are omnipotent we shall have no more need of science. There will be no distinction between beauty and ugliness. There will be no curiosity, no enjoyment of the process of life. All competing pleasures will be destroyed. But always — do not forget this, Winston — always there will be the intoxication of power, constantly increasing and constantly growing subtler. Always, at every moment, there will be the thrill of victory, the sensation of trampling on an enemy who is helpless. If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face — for ever.

And remember that it is for ever. The face will always be there to be stamped upon. The heretic, the enemy of society, will always be there, so that he can be defeated and humiliated over again. — George Orwell

George Orwell I did not know, but George (Saunders) is a friend from some distant past. I heard a cryptic review on NPR of his first novel The Brief and Frightening Reign of Phil that made its way to shelves recently. I’d buy a copy, but I don’t spare cash for material things that I would just have to carry around. I’ll wait until it’s online with the Gutenberg Project or so. maybe somewhen else I’ll resurrect some visual histories of other days that were shared. why George was leaping over the parking meter I no longer recall. why I made an image, I only know that I have been taking images of friends in various stages of living at various ground coordinates for more years than I can remember why. certainly not for nostalgic reasons because when I took them, there was no future, only a present that skittered along, like the rocks I sometimes spin across bodies of water, or the rocks that I have held in hand, drawing lines on another’s body, or those same rocks, smooth in their repeated collisions with other rocks, now in my jean’s watch pocket, getting warm from expended body heat, and grounding one side of my body to the body of the earth. humans have life collisions. I collided with George, numerous times, it wore down some sharp edges, maybe. maybe not. I still have sharp edges, George perhaps not. maybe not proud of that, as evolutionary alteration is a sign of maturation.

V2

tuning in to Lev Manovich‘s lecture/discussion at V2. last time I saw Lev was at my flat in Helsinki in 2000, I made dinner for him, Tapio, and Susanna. His topic is “scale effects.” Stephen Kovats, a curator at V2, sent an email invitation to myself and a handful of other folks who frequently participate in such live/online events. it is a non-standard way to participate, for sure, watching and hearing the event via an audio/video stream, and reacting to that via an IRC channel that is projected into the lecture space. there is much more that one could do to push this format for live interaction, but it usually ends up being rather mundane and polite.

sotto voce: after self data-mining. computers scaling social forms. (dialectic between increasing quantity, size, creates new effects. examples Wikipedia. scaling in visual culture. one million hours of programming online. (BBC?) company in San Diego makes 6 giga-pixel images. (factors — image size, data volume, podcasting, moblogs) Bruce Sterling, the future. ubiquitous computing. media ecology. listing newest, hippest pop technologies. What about the societies in which this technological consumerism takes place in? medical imaging – PET, MRI, CT. graphical browsers took off. 30-40 years of media history. What about the impact of scaling up of existing media? What is tradition of quantitative effect scaling. very much based on a Cartesian system. Mcluhan’s suggestion that increasing of speed changes the social system. With scale being a parameter for comparison of media implementations. Speed: processing speed relating to visual presentation. algorithm already developed in Durer’s time. so, scaling causes the development of a “whole new media”… new visualizations important to contemporary science. resolution yardstick. but the available visual cortex (field of vision) can cover a small fragment of the image at any one time. redefining new media. normal media flattens the world, then surveillance. 4k digital Cinema. adam says it’s all smoke and mirrors. I think it seems to be using conventional metrics — based in Cartesian worldviews? temporal, spatial, compression. the collective. “as much data as we want.”

the parallel irc discussion (see below) leaves much space for wondering at Lev’s success. there seems a close linkage between text production and influence, something I have mentioned many times in other places. he made careful note that he is working on two new books and is proceeding at a rate of 2500 words a day. seems linear, quantitative, and retro. hmmmm. but it works within the attention economy.

Henry at the Beach

okay, okay, I’m slacking here. using all these GIANT bytes of texts-from-elsewhere. well, Karen sent this to me along with a nice photo of her son Henry at the beach. it resonated with my state of being at the moment.

Before the beginning, there was this turtle. And the turtle was alone. And he looked around, and he saw his neighbor, which was his mother. And he lay down on top of his neighbor, and behold! she bore him in tears an oak tree, which grew all day and then fell over — like a bridge. And lo! under the bridge there came a catfish. And he was very big. And he was walking. And he was the biggest he had seen. And so with the fiery balls of this fish — one of which is the sun, the other the moon?

Yes, some uncomplicated peoples still believe this myth. But here, in the technical vastness of the future we can guess that surely the past was very different. We can surmise for instance that these two great balls?

We know for certain for instance that for some reason for some time in the beginning there were hot lumps, cold and lonely, they whirled noiselessly through the black holes of space. These insignificant lumps came together to form the first union, our Sun, the heating system. And about this glowing gasbag rotated the Earth, a cat’s eye among aggies, blinking in astonishment across the face of time.

Well, we were covered with the molten scum of rocks, bobbing on the surface like rats. Later when there was less heat, these giant rock groups settled down among the land masses. During this extinct time, our earth was like a steam room, and no one, not even man, could get in. However, the oceans and the sewers were simmering with a rich protein stew, and the mountains moved in to surround and protect them. They didn’t know then that living as we know it, was already taken over.

Animals without backbones hid from each other or fell down. Clamasaurs and oysterettes appeared as appetizers. Then came the sponges, which sucked up about ten percent of all life. Hundreds of years later, in the Late Devouring period, fish became obnoxious. Trilobites, chiggerbites and mosquitoes collided aimlessly in the dense gas. Finally, edible plants sprang up in rows, giving birth to generations of insecticides and other small, dying creatures.

Millions of months passed, and twenty-eight days later, the moon appeared. This small change was reflected best perhaps, in the sand dollar which shrank to almost nothing at the bottom of the pool where even dumb amphibians like catfish laid their eggs in the boiling waters only to be gobbled up every ten seconds by the giant sea orphans and jungle bunnies which scared everybody.

And so, in fear and hot water, man is born! — The Firesign Theatre

neuroscenes

I think Nick suggests that moniker, but maybe not. my memory of daily existence is very flat and lacking any cataloged depth or retrieval landmarks. this will persist into the future. with spinal cord damage. the entire neuro-system is off. so is the lap where the laptop resides. some skin surface below the suture line reacts with the definite sensation of burning when there is only a slight pressure contact. confused nerves. distorted signals. while the main body system slowly oscillates, out of equilibrium.

The Energy Dynamics of Technologically-Mediated Human Relation within Digital Telecommunications Networks

A proposal by John Hopkins for Doctoral Thesis research at the University of Bremen, Department of Computer Science (Informatiks) [editor’s note: this initial proposal never was submitted following the accident of 04 July 2005 that set life on another trajectory.]

1.0 Statement of Problem

1.1 Introductory note

Beginning with a series of broad general statements that converge to frame the trans-disciplinary space of my inquiry, I will move to proposals that are more specific. This approach is an important feature of the research itself — where the applicability and efficacy of a model is best challenged when looking from absolute specific cases to increasingly general situations and vice versa. In framing this essentially divergent research, I would suggest that the proposal first be considered as a whole — as I understand that the depth of my knowledge-base varies across some of the disciplinary spaces. more “The Energy Dynamics of Technologically-Mediated Human Relation within Digital Telecommunications Networks”

deCrypt0graphic

Josephine, the dynamo-hostess at funksoup asked me about adding a aud/vid stream to a live/situated performance called deCrypt0graphic she was choreographing as part of the Music for Peace Project out at Stony Brook University, so, fresh off the desert intensity, jump into practicing yesterday, then the performance runs today. she needed some Morse code remix, so I was able to dredge up a series of recordings of my father’s from his days as a HAM radio enthusiast — practice tapes for learning Morse code, along with real message transmissions from some of his radio friends. remixed that along with the audio from the archive. I’ll be uploading some sample aud/vid clips shortly…

Dedicated to cultivating peace as both a means and an end, the Music for Peace Project creates a global celebration of peace and provides a voice for the vibrant community that believes in peaceful solutions for the future.

these remote things, never know what is actually happening at the other end, so, there’s always a bit of a sense of dis-satisfaction, not knowing whether one’s outgoing stream has any relevance to the located ambiance at the receiving end. but Jos is great to work with, so it’s always a good vibe. dunno when we will ever meet. she had a Fulbright over at deWaag in Amsterdam, with Guy and the anatomix crew, that’s how we met, remote, when I was on the NIFCA residency in Helsinki last spring.

dis-orientation

the immediate sensation of walking in the desert is that of dis-orientation, not as though the earth is not located in gravitational alignment with the body, but just that local principles of verticality and level are distorted by the radiating fields of each feature of the landscape. the barrel cactus making a vortex, the Joshua Tree making a rushing multiplicity of whorls that snake through the air in frozen torment. the Saguaro, massive, rakes the moving air with so many spiny teeth that there is a rush not so different from that through the branches of a live oak, in the fall when the leaves are stuck in crinkled brown misery, waiting for some winter storm to end it all.

I stumble slowly in random directions. stopping every few minutes to examine some thing, no, some tableau, of intricate intensity. first it is the flowers, the huge ones on some of the smaller barrel cactus, the color of which cannot be mapped on a spectral scale. it is beyond red, crimson, scarlet, and carnelian together. then the small yellow-orange poppies, scattered widely, punctuating, defining vertices. then there are the rest of the flowers, purple, white, yellow, spectral and brilliant, defining scale. then the variety of cacti. birds, seldom actually seen, unlike the red-tailed hawk that signaled the place to stop for the night. but there is plenty of song throughout the air. stone and earth given from volcanism, basalts and pyroclastics, with rare SiO2 thermal depositions. what looks like a man-chipped white quartz flake in one stream bed. nothing else of interest locally. one wash has some standing water alive with insects and larva in the water. butterflies and hornets, wasps drinking. water seeming fresh, but another week and it will be gone. for the rest of the 4 months until the monsoon brings an occasional flash-flood. then the sky, with a patterned layer of high-altitude clouds coming from a NW low pressure, bringing something from the Pacific. not rain, but only the dimness of vapor sun Light. something of a relief here in the day, at night, keeping the land-warmth in a bit. I walk for perhaps four hours, stopping frequently, in an outward spiral from the space-vehicle that brought me here. seeing it on occasion, far off and small, alien. near it’s track. forward advance was halted by a hill a bit too steep and rutted and graveled to gain traction. the powerful urge to buy a 4×4 Tacoma nags at my hydrocarbon-nurtured soul. the soul born of the road-trip. a extravagant luxury in the near future. and only a strange memory for the next generation. grabbing food, bedding, tents, stoves, chairs, axe, bug-repellent, sun-screen, and some good friends, and head out, some where. topping the tank off at the last outpost.

with the clouds, Phoenix announces itself 120 miles away with a malevolent reddish glow reaching up about 15 degrees from the southeast horizon between two mesas. it brightens while I watch Jupiter, led by its four main satellites, pulling it like a globular puppet on invisible strings up the ecliptic plane. the two main tropic bands easily visible, the spot not apparent. (more images)

For me there is only the traveling on paths that have heart, on any path that may have heart. There I travel, and the only worth-while challenge is to traverse its full length. And there I travel looking, looking, breathlessly. — Carlos Castenada

chaos & dynamical systems theory

Illustration of a Julia Set by Scott Hotton. Dynamical Systems Theory (a branch of mathematics used to describe the behavior of complex systems by employing differential and difference equations) is another limited framework for modeling complex systems. More accurate than linear and non-linear models, but none-the-less reductionist. (Well, talk about restating the obvious when it comes to anything mathematical, as the concept itself is a reduced language for expressing natural phenomena — I don’t subscribe to the early Greek concept where mathematics does not represent but is a universal and perfect thing unto itself). While human-generated system solutions (say, engineering problems such as placing satellites into orbit) are solved through classic computational modeling with linear systems, natural systems like the brain need something more.

Chaotic systems are especially sensitive to initial conditions. initial conditions are necessary for any reductive system analysis because in the abstraction process of reduction, the system is extracted and disconnected from the continuum of life. Good for mathematical (computational) modeling. But when defining a real-world problem, how feasible is it to define initial conditions at all? Is there a way to not define initial conditions?

A chaotic system is defined as one that shows sensitivity to initial conditions. That is, any uncertainty in the initial state of the given system, no matter how small, will lead to rapidly growing errors in any effort to predict the future behavior. In other words, the system is chaotic. Its behavior can be predicted only if the initial conditions are known to an infinite degree of accuracy, which is impossible. — Gollub and Solomon

between unstable renormalizability and quantum darwinism

The vacuum as an organizational phenomenon has the disturbing logical implication that the ancient dream of commanding the ultimate power of the universe just by thinking about it is a delusion, made so not by human frailty but by the very physical processes one is trying to understand. Ironically, nature abets this delusion. It can, and often does, happen that an experiment improved to reveal an ultimate cause reveals instead emergent universality of a nearby phase transition masquerading as one. This effect is unfortunately very likely to be occurring in the vacuum of space-time, for unstable renormalizability, one of its strangest attributes, is observed in tabletop experiments to emerge very generally near phase transitions. If it is indeed the case that the vacuum is characterized by a hierarchical cascade of universalities, then all of our allegedly fundamental knowledge about it is temporary, and destined to pass away in the future as experiments improve. — R. B. Laughlin

from bed to trans-Atlantic to bed

bed, Copenhagen, Denmark, November 2004

just incomprehensible. I, Robot, twice in a row. Asimov in Hollywood. dribs of humor, drabs of car chase, gobbets of fire, punching, swat teams, body armor, and guns. and imagine that, I get to see it a third time, four days into the future. on 21 November, en route across Amurika. another 6.5 hours in the air.

bed, Glen Ridge, New Jersey, November 2004

eldgós uppkominn

The future belongs to portent, as on the night that the first Gulf War started back in 1991, when Hekla vomited back what the US military throwing at the earth in the Gulf region; so, as on the eve of the unfortunate re-election of the Bush Regime, Grímsvötn in the middle of Vatnajökull feels intense gastric distress about future warring and earth-raping, and belches in protest: so it goes. This is the same volcano that caused the massive and catastrophic flooding in the fall of 1996, when the sub-glacial lake of the same name located in a large caldera breached its banks and sent a huge volume of water blasting out under the glacier, coming to the edge at and blowing out a 2 km wide chunk of Skeitharárjökull, cutting a 1 km wide swath through a terminal moraine that stands about 200 meters high and a kilometer across. This flood left giant pieces of glacier ice, some the size of large apartment blocks scattered across the jet-black expanse of the sandur (out-wash plain). And took out 15 km of the national ring road. All in 5 minutes. There’s the story of the local policeman from the town Vík nearby the glacier who had gone out on early morning patrol on the ring road, and forgot his coffee thermos, right after he turned around to get it, he saw the flood in his rear-view mirror. Thank god for caffeine-addiction! MB, Loki, and I cruised through the region and jeep up to the glacier face in the early spring of 1997 where I shot quite a bit of material. Good thing, as all those huge chunks of ice were completely melted before the tourists arrived that summer. Quite an incredible sight though.

fires?

folks begin to migrate in their separate directions after the final main evening last night (which was interrupted by a fire alarm right when VideoHomeTraining was about to start their set at 0030. I was pretty tired by that time, because the fire alarm in the art academy building where I have a penthouse flat went off last night at 0300 with a huge clanging bell right outside my bedroom door for 20 minutes. so I missed the big finale with xploding plastik, oh well. today is spent packing, and having some final meetings for future reference.

It is less a question of the artist interpreting the world than of allowing existing or hypothetical biological processes, mathematical structures, social or collective dynamics to speak directly. In this sense art no longer involves the composition of a ‘message’ but the creation of a mechanism. A new type of artist appears, one who no longer relates the course of historical events. This new artist is an architect of the space of events, an engineer of worlds for billions of future histories, a sculptor of the virtual. — Pierre Lévy

one year from passing

a year since Dad died. doesn’t feel like that at all. a year. one of an endless cycle of circles around a Light. how else would we know, without abstract methodologies of measurement, except to see that things are the same, and different each time around. time may be a continuous phenomena, but it is variable for different beings, and states of being. why not? the willows, aspen, poplar, and birch are all transforming. rapidly. along with the snow marching down the mountainsides. by the time I get back from Norway in three weeks, this place will be stark, winter. time passes. flooding all corners of the sensual world, and affecting change in all things. when in the pool, at each deep inhalation there are smells of the sticky-sweet poplar here, almost a taste. it’s slightly different from the Cottonwood of the desert Southwest, but the smell brings a strong memory to surface. I’ve talked about this before in other places of this travelog. the smell of trees.

At times I feel as if I had lived all this before and that I have already written these very words, but I know it was not I: it was another woman, who kept her notebooks so that one day I could use them. I write, she wrote, that memory is fragile and the space of a single life is brief, passing so quickly that we never get a chance to see the relationship between events; we cannot gauge the consequences of our acts, and we believe in the fiction of past, present, and future, but it may also be true that everything happens simultaneously — as the three Mora sisters said, who could see the spirits of all eras mingled in space. — Isabelle Allende, House of Spirits

moving on

finally broke down and bought a copy of Geert’s book and was pleased with his working of the New Media Education chapter. trying to ready new material for the Overgaden Sound Festival which I am co-curating with Björn, though I haven’t been too busy. at least with that, more, all the other things coming up in the immediate future — RAM6 in Vilnius, the residency in Akureyri, the Matchmaking Festival workshop in Trondheim, several video festivals to submit the new dvd to, logistics, spring schedules beginning to be made, taxes to be finished, some texts to write, and all the other stuff that is always hanging there, like this web space. as it creeps toward its ten-year anniversary.

Pynchon

dinner with Steffi, Christian, Petra and Jan (along with Lynn the turntablist).

Pynchon crosses my path. long time since Gravity’s Rainbow. but Vineland strikes at the Steve Kurtz vs US gov’t affair that regurgitates into view from the belly of the beast. stepping into a swirling nightmare with only mine-shaft black facing up ahead. all future painted over with a slathering mix of carbon and steel, not to mention the shank-boot stamping on fingers and face. thank you taxpayer dollars. not a shred of romance, or even optimism except in some ethereal winding of ideology that transcends this life. leaves the corruption of state in its own self-made hell.

She had to switch cars again before she got to L.A., then took the bus out to a bank branch on mid-Wilshire where she had once providentially stashed a packet of documents that would now give her a choice among identities, paid cash on Western Avenue for a ’66 Plymouth Fury, bought a wig at a place across the street, went into a certain ladies’ gas-station toilet on Olympic legendary in the dopers’ community, and emerged a different, less noticeable person. The car radio, tuned to KFWB, was playing the Doors’ “People Are Strange (When You’re a Stranger)” as she injected herself into the slow lane of the eastbound freeway and settled in, hating to let go of any of it, Banning, the dinosaurs, the Palm Springs turnoff, Indio, across the Mojave, to be redreamed in colors pale but intense, with unnaturally fine sand blowing in plumes across the sun, baby-blue shadows in the folds of the dunes, a pinkish sky — holding on, letting go, re-dreaming each night stop the less easterly places she’d been in all day, coming slowly unstuck, leaving for the United States, trying not to get emotional but still hanging on the rear view mirror’s single tale of receedings and vanishing points as we hang on looks our lovers give. — Thomas Pynchon, Vineland

on the road

At the airport, seems I missed Mari, but the security line got too long and the time to boarding got short. goodbyes stack up: spent language, brief embraces, and what is felt? leave-taking, wet tarmac. quiet hollow winds scoop up surface moisture and make prolapsed thunderheads that range to the east. offshore is clear. aching jaw. writing of future is fiction, drawing on the past only sustains the image of actuality. writing the present kills precisely what needs to be written about. no substance. I don’t recall the instance: the first time viewing a perspectival convergence to see what coming, what is growing larger. at least understand that inside the motive drift is a tidal current pulling on all bodies. keeps them orbiting. and crashing together at various speeds. escaping those instances leads to interstellar space. cold, dark, entropic feeding on any warmth and life. (recall or even behold The Steppenwulf).

airport. Friday afternoon, flight to Brussels will be full of EU VIPs returning from the hinterlands. at least the roving middle-class managers: small vips.

while the news from the US becomes more and more grim. the Steve Kurtz case would be laughable except that it is only the beginning, and it is nothing to the FBI and CIA. it appears there has been a deep culture shift in the mentality of Amurikans. bunker-mode hardly explains it. it smells like fear of living. and the need to brand every small gesture as ‘with us or against us’.

another airport. looking at things in that critical view. looking at the Other passengers with kindness and empathy. why are we all here?

ram5 – day 4

The final day after some power-full sonic/visual performances last night including a nice visual-sonic collaboration between Sara Kolster and Derek Holzer of umatic. Discussion starts with a presentation from Armin Medosch who makes an eloquent outline for the future replete with lessons from the past.

But many here have a passionate and singular dedication to the ‘solutions’ offered by technology. This I can only subscribe to a lack of experience in seeing the mapping from hype to reality of other, previous techno-utopias. Am I a cynical oldster? There is an overt exhibiting of ‘critical intellectual discourse’ on the face of it, but the proceeding praxis is merely an over-heated implementation of a skewed representations of reality. hmmmm. A reference to the rhetoric of prior situations would be helpful.

hyvää vappua and live-fire

Vappua, Helsinki, Finland, April 2004

streets will fill with people starting in early afternoon, tens of thousands ready to party, partying. students with their graduation hats which will not be white by morning. when May Day arrives. while naval and military exercises take place within sight and earshot. large rounds, heavy machine guns, Light weapons, naval vessels painted with dull, jagged edged black-greenish-brown camo park in the harbor, come and go at any time and in any direction. one is the newest addition to the small Finnish Navy, the fast-attack “Hamina-class” aluminum-and-composite hulled vessel equipped with South African guided-missiles. fetish culture of technology. another drags a set of large floating targets in from the open sea south of the island. rumbling, grumbling, rattling concussions. all day.

preparations for a war that will not come in the near future. does assumption of future war come from historical precedence, or does it come from a desiring well-spring inside certain beings?

through the only open window, raucous party voices begin to drift, along with the rumbling noise of the city beneath, propping up the fun. if there was only pure silence as a backdrop for the party, things would fall into the void, lack reflection, and draw all energy into itself. making the party fail to become the relief that it is.

day two

workshop continues this morning. after the performances last night at Blå, the state-sponsored club across the bridge from notam.

walking around Oslo, there is the sense of the cosmopolitan that is almost completely lacking in Helsinki. bits of material and social chaos that are hidden or tidied-up in the Finnish system of propriety flutter, clatter, and clash on the streets of Oslo.

workshop ending, I’m not there, had to leave early to catch the plane, not sure how I made the reservation that gets me to miss the last evening of concerts, and the conclusion of the workshop. before leaving Bjarne, Kim, and I sit down to discuss future possibilities.

so many impressions again, and the mapping of these over into the representative space is a immature and delinquent action. another set of human encounters which translate into a viable if unstable future. Norway rises on my terrain map again. not quite sure how it made its original appearance, except through the Icelandic Nordplus connection back in 1992. true, I was quite focused on central Europe, France and Germany almost exclusively. between 1992 and 1994, though, the IT culture was on the rise in Scandinavia. that and the art educational exchange opportunities. hmmmm, how about those histories.

Kim’s work. extreme, lean. subtle, sharp, mapped, choreography of chaotic textures. picked up a couple cd’s to be tracked asap. (they’re mini-cd’s so, can’t run them in the slot drive on the PowerBook). he mentions the Cassette Underground in passing, and, aside from others who were active in that anarchic pseudo-network, like Lloyd Dunn and Bern Porter, I haven’t personally run into any folks from those real tangible and underground US art networks ever. only through the network, not f2f.

so, in the way of human connections. this movement since leaving Boulder is simply evolving, electrically. so good to be back in tech-no-madic form.

de Saussure

dinner last night with Sophea, Andrew and Jodi, impromptu gathering. on the island. finally got to the pool in the morning, doing 2500 meters in meditative solitude.

stay on the island today, another dinner here tomorrow.

As for the radio’s object, I don’t think it can consist simply in prettifying public life. Nor is radio in my view an adequate means of bringing back coziness to the home and making family life bearable again. But quite apart from the dubiousness of its functions, radio is one-sided when it should be two-. It is purely an apparatus for distribution, for mere sharing out. So here is a positive suggestion: change this apparatus over from distribution to communication. The radio would be the finest possible communication apparatus in public life, a vast network of pipes. That is to say, it would be if it knew how to receive as well as to transmit, how to let the listener speak as well as hear, how to bring him into a relationship instead of isolating him. On this principle the radio should step out of the supply business and organize its listeners as suppliers. Any attempt by the radio to give a truly public character to public occasions is a step in the right direction. — Bertold Brecht, The Radio as an Apparatus of Communication

reconnecting with dreams. perhaps that’s what this residency is about. after a drift this morning that starts in a graying Light of 0500. a drift through family images and the cares of Light future. the whining Light hum of Boreal summer has not arisen from the earth yet, but will soon. dreams, Light, and a contemplation of the past, present and future at the same time as being in the moment.

reading the introduction to Saussure’s “Course in General Linguistics,” a few pages into the text helps me realize that the energized worldview I hold is a valuable point from which to view the world, and, more significant, it is worthy of re-creating for others in the form of a text. this is a realization of self-worth. nothing more, nothing less.

on the way

days alternate: hiding on the island, and going to meet folks. wandering to the ferry through the ice-fog. while meeting Sanna in Café Succés on Korkeavourenkatu, Visa sees me and drops in. on my first visit to Finland, in 1994, and then in early 1995, when I did a gig at Media Lab, I stayed in what was his printing studio, around the corner from the café. to save money on the Nordplus teaching exchange, I had a tea and wienari (a cinnamon and glazed pseudo-spiral of pastry dough with a berry jam center) for breakfast. earl gray. bergamot. it was enough to carry me until the institutional lunch at the university which packed belly with the standard fare. pea soup with ham on Thursdays. all across the country. anyway, it’s my favorite café in Helsinki, they have the largest and best wienari in town, made on the premises fresh daily. there is a constant level of coming and going, intimate meetings, where old lovers can have tea and conversation that drifts through all the subjects that once were whispered with entwined and humid breath in nights of late spring, no longer dark in these latitudes. tulips on the table are chosen with a color to match the only dressy shirt available, and time is mapped in eyes and souls. nothing changed, and only the future is left. the past is past. dialogue after dialogue. one, another, another, yet another. life spent in this vocal dance. and occasionally in the Lighter dance of embodied soul, where corporeal centers of gravity press close and don’t need calculus to predict a potent trajectory.

if only. on the edge of the seat, looking onto the eyes. averting when the intensity of that looking is too much. trying to see heart behind glassy lens. but, after awhile, nothing to do but be. effort for this is neither rewarded nor punished, only just tolerated. better to stay in the moment, forget past and future. be an oracle for the self. and when wandering back slowly to the island, Lightly entwined for warmth, words slowly pressed from the atmosphere, silence filled with iced breath. first some tea to warm hands, then rearranging the furniture, pushing beds together.

the issue is, on this residency, what exactly to do? or not to do?? some things are done already.

office

Spending life-time, putting energy into organizing my immediate surroundings for comfort, focus, and convenience. Yet another office, arranged in one of the many military administrative buildings from the period of Russian occupation of Finland.

And what to do. Reading, cutting down the email inbox but still many texts to generate, to get out for network facilitation and future logistical planning. How to balance this with the opportunity to NOT be slammed all the time? To let go of the tendency.

re:sorb

a long day and the end of a long electric week that ends up behind the Bahnhof, downtown, underground, a throbbing d’n’b scene. with the informatik posse re:sorb doing the vj-ing. I’m the guest. groove. so many grooves grooved upon, grooved through, in the last decades. but it’s the same, different, each time, the focus, the concentration, the groove. it makes something happen. here and there. in a groove. to be taken very seriously. loud pictures and all.

and windows open on future praxis. embodied mind praxis the most important route.

the workshop is incredibly successful, thanks to the dedication and open-ness of the crew. again, a series of in-spiring tableau. free-wheeling conversations, the efficacy of the dialogue assignments are clearly demonstrated. optimal situation. Frieder’s facilitates a true trans-disciplinary program — experimental even though it’s at one of Germany’s most liberal universities — drawing an eclectic group of students who are able to care for themselves in a way that those embedded in the US system may no longer.

earplugs

whewsh, already HERE. for some days. staying in the empty flat of a friend of a friend, an Icelandic woman living in Boulder. a blizzard outside, and the same in my head, the soft haze of jet-lag. in the mornings, leaving me groveling to the desire — not even out of bed — for more sleep, sleep, sleep. and taking it: not like I have a JOB or anything. but with the limited time here, people to see, plans to be made, and the heavier work of Germany lying just ahead. maybe should be sampling future modes of mentality. nah, just be here now, which is struggle enough.

swimming, forgot my earplugs. ever since I ruptured my eardrum in that surfing crash while hanging out at Randy’s Delaware Shore beach house oh so many years ago, ears have gotten sensitive to cold, so, earplugs are a must. I don’ wanna hear. shutting ears to the noise of being, nah, just sensitive. and not tough.

rotless jottings

verily on the road. in the sky, between earth and heavens. and with an inertia far above the normative baseline (of tethered being). perhaps pivotal in locative presence. with the strange old dilemma of Europe beckoning, offering cultural and intellectual stimulation, and jobs; the US only to be inhabited with a begging bowl or throat-cutting PR tactics. and this highly incidental and mercenary gibberish of law, politic, militarism, and market. but the spaciousness of the land, it’s enveloping and readable sky (sky slowly dying in down-wind Los Angeles and coal-fired über-powerplant and endless wide-fogging sky-worms). vegetation that is sensible, and sensuous, full of necessity.

so. anyway, officially this space again becomes a travelog. once I called it rotless jottings, tagging a label on the notebook entries that fit face-to-face in closed books in a locked trunk somewhere, sometime. because otherwise, these notes still dance around the voice of the void. not the voice inside, but an external expression that is stiff and formal with social conformity. not yet freed from the externally measured usage. the development of voice, so often spoken about by writers, must be a unique and very much internal coming-to-know process. nothing frugal or ascetic, but rich, debauched, and psychic. transient as any heightened state of being. sustainable only with tremendous self-discipline or complete abstention from reasoned living. so, what path is this, developing in the time of … war?

flows of strangers surround, carry, float the senses in a proto-typical field of mellow drama (“gripping meller drammer,” my father would say, transiting the teevee room) and bland media platitudes.

but, hallo, where am I? elsewhere. another airport again, a new-ish feeling, not fitting, but fossilized in mind. an homage to Bedouin. past flickering lives, partially transparent bodies that echo histories and occasionally abundant futures.

what did you say?

whiskers grow…

outcomes

Einstein. got no further. than that. entries at only one or two per month these days, awaiting some other outcome, future reference, stepping up, onward. side-stepping the past, no possibility of looking into it for now. the long path of the past log tails the dog, where hair of same-said dog would be more appropriate. physical placement seems to bring on a dullness. second skin growing over the eyes.

graduation

Loki graduates tonight from fifth grade at Whittier. what an incredible constellation of kids he has been with. incredible teachers, including his main man, the legendary Whittier Elementary 4th-5th grade teacher, Craig Yager. not sure what exactly has rubbed off for him, but it is clear that his teachers gave of themselves in the process. it is very emotional, watching the whole event, realizing that the year is over, this dip into a community, something, at least on this geographical scale, foreign to me. and having a sustained presence here, also an anomaly. how good it felt. how hard it was on both of us. how sad seeing it end. fears for future floating, rise up. fears.

bah!

riparian places

self-portrait, Pool Creek Canyon, Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado, May 2003

and hardly anything to be said about this place. no textual naming enough. walking the riparian canyon with clear running water. not too much, but enough. not too cold, but enough. harvesting a few spring fronds of sage. not sure exactly why, but just to have, perhaps for future blessings. climbing to the smallish cave that overlooks the end of the access canyon at Echo Park. turns out it is not really a cave, but a hole into a face to a whole slice of open fracture plane. open to the sky. the whole small canyon follows a massive fracture plane cutting across the formation. these energy configurations. we are so used to, so comfortable with, pre-configured energy packages. that the raw flow on all scales, at all levels, under all conditions, is just too much to bear. while the wind blows across skin. and the skin is raked by the radiative solar flux. and this machine starts its own fan. the environment too harsh for it. couldn’t take outside into the wind and dust, that’s clear. soft device. needing the feed of electric energy to keep it functional. at all. or it becomes a paper-weight only. to fight the wind.

skin memories

rolling through a skin-felt coolishness, a Scandinavian mid-summer day. the latitudes are shifting south. or the globe is shifting north, or I am higher than any mountain in those Northlands that I used to pace. so feel the breeze with tempered skin. radiation pouring from on high, Light come down from the heavens. (noticing that my habit of text generation is more than retro). more than quoting the past, less than enLightenment of future extremities. adsorbing all returning sensual consumptions.

self-portrait: unspoken im-press-ions

self-portrait after swimming the confluence, the Green & Yampa in Echo Park, Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado, July 2002

so much stimulation. skunks, 8-point bucks, fish, minnows, crayfish, bats, Mormon Locusts, lizards, snakes, sage grouse, sagebrush, the Yampa, the Green, Steamship Rock, the sandstone, the sky, storms, swimming in place in the river, hiking Sand Canyon, waiting for rain. two days in Echo Park is a lifetime of regeneration. will definitely bring Loki here. 14 years ago I was here last. it has changed. the broad park with 20 or so huge cottonwood trees is half gone, consumed by the river, the trees lying like skeletons of monstrous beasts in the low water. that whole area is now closed for camping, and a ‘regular’ campground established at the point where the road exits the canyon on the way down. nicer that way, gives the wildlife a better chance in that area. strange how much the topography has changed, though, I had not expected it. not to mention the colonization by tamarisk. that has changed the shoreline. watching the stars last night, sleeping in the back of the truck, head on the tailgate, waking at regular intervals, seeing the sheer wall above and behind me, changing color, shade, as morning approached. and the rotation of stars silhouetted by the massive cliffs in every direction. no bugs to speak of, but tonight there seems to be many. more “self-portrait: unspoken im-press-ions”

congregate

the Colorado is sluggish, cloudy, and low. beside the road it passes through many lands that will burn, have already burned, or are burning right now. so it goes.

Glenwood Springs, head for the busy Hot Springs Spa for a few hours. never been in all these years of hot-water soaking elsewhere: it’s expensive, and the water is too hot for a regular workout. but it is extremely clear, salty, and relaxing. the scene is utterly American. chaotic, summertime noisy, full of seemingly satisfied people. I film the scene. there are foreigners there, getting a better deal than only two months ago with the slide of the dollar against the Yen and Euro. I have made 20% on the money that I left in my Merita bank account in Finland. too bad there is only USD 500 in it, had to shift the rest here months ago when the Euro was at its lowest point against the dollar. banks always win, so it goes.

stop at a rest area in Glenwood Canyon, don’t read the instructional signs about the spectacular construction of the interstate in the canyon — well, yeah, I do, and it is all bragging like it’s the eighth wonder of the world — but do appreciate the solar (active/passive) designed toilet complex. shit warmed by the sun. tromb walls, solar water heaters, solar panels for the ventilation fans, banked northern exposure (banked and buried roof): Arcosanti with composting toilets — titillating the Mid-Western tourists from Oklahoma, Nebraska, and Iowa. too bad hardly anybody else builds things like that here in the solar West. form trumps function, so it goes.

and in perused memory, halfway through (again) Cadillac Desert: The American West and Its Disappearing Water by Marc Reisner. it’s a detailed and well-researched treatise on water and the West. historical abominations that continue in this day. dams, irrigation projects, the madness of re-directing the flow of energies. of this stupendous place. overheard the phrase “when will the other boot drop?” humankind is wracking up a massive debt of energy that it has re-directed from its necessary flow, like a temper-tantrum with little kids, when they are too much controlled or ignored. they explode with pent-up energies. the world is waiting for this. anybody clever enough to understand that in the present is seen the kernel of the future, look around, and see the word apokalypse printed on each compiled imbalance. the transformative crises (plural!) will grow in cataclysmic intensity. somebody made an artificial polio virus this week, where will that bring us? they ponder if it is alive. it paralyzes mice and kills them. dead. science of science-sake, so it goes.

dam it. so it goes. but we can’t have that! re-route, congregate, compile, merge, co-mingle, and tap off the chaotic flows of the cosmos.

Iceland Day

Iceland Day. when the Icelanders brave cold wet weather and mingle on the streets.

Sogpal Rimpoche reminds and reminds and reminds. leaving nothing unclear. language suggesting practice. the hints are everywhere, and always elusive. rabbits in the 20×40 foot grass yard, they are starving for the drought. and, at the same time, an expert reminds Westerners that the word drought is not applicable to a place technically defined as a desert. it’s always dry here, and to have a lawn is an alien fragment of bourgeoisie command-and-control of an environment that will win out eventually. the rabbits, gophers, deer, the occasional javelina all love to feast on green garden delicacies, imported gently from New England and Old. while young hopeless and having no future Palestinians rip self and others apart. shreds. what is the statistic? in 5 years there will be 600 million young Islamic males between 18-25? don’t quote me on that. think that’s what passed the eyes. somewhere in the fragmented media flow partaken of.

meanwhile, thumbing seven years of travelog nose at the new wave of bloggers. they seem to think that personal logs of life-notes are somehow a distinct innovation. telling stories from the road, from life, in networked spaces. at the same time, lamenting my own inability to innovate my own network space quicker. often speaking about network presence with students, but aside from the anomalous remote communications regime operating for the last 20-odd years, what is there?

B2

watching the graduation procession wander by the Art Building. strange to see a local cultural tradition. they seem very fragmented in Amurika. tenuous, changeable. fragile. a Nobel prize-winner talks to the commencement crowd. but I miss it, instead, go up to the Lab to discover that a video-projector has been stolen. and school is done. sky hazy, shaded with far-away roiling raked clouds. an edge on the air, yet. and no water falls from the sky. being in the pool. 50 minutes for the 3000 yards. cycling. meet Mark, Joe, and Mikhail. they have sushi because the coffee place is closed for a private party. we talk about the future and how things are. a B2 bomber flies over 1500 feet above us, people run out onto the streets to see. seven months after 9/11. and the silent skies that ruled for four daze. everything shakes in the roar. it is for the graduating Air Force reserve officers. zoomies.

Ingvi

and now a brief memory of a death last summer, no, two summers ago already. seeing Ingvi one evening, talking with him about the future, what he’s interested in doing, then two days later, the young teenager is dead in an automobile accident where his father was driving. in the countryside of Iceland.

you cannot change the past

ponderings:

they sat in a room in a mud house dried by southern suns or so they thought. but it was one of those rooms where vision was restricted, atrophied, and seeing even the heat of mingled breath close to the face was not possible. she said that she couldn’t see much down the road either. instead of listening, he looked down upon his Self from above, like the moon, somewhere else in the room, or through the window, it was evening, and the Blood of Christ mountains moved under the fixed stars. she was there, he was somewhere else, or at least that what it seemed. to a third person, though there wasn’t an Other in the room, it seemed that they were both there. or maybe all three were alone, in separate rooms. wondering which door to open, hoping that they would find the Other. it was all too much. sensual presence limited to a 60 cycle drone in the ear. so he slept near the sea. sleeping was easier. his soul could drift. seaweed, underwater, storm breakers, a flush of bubbles, millions of small silver worlds. eyes closed. and still they saw. they saw the conditions of all things around and the entire rushing froth of the universe. (in every instant. de-cipher. out of the word, before the word. ex-officio.) and with that seeing, the force behind the eyes apprehended the future. and the past was there as well: not in need of apprehension, but of leaving in it’s momentary state of reified change. you cannot change the past. neither can I. they looked at each other, eyes as deep as the flat sky of a frozen noon somewhere in a nameless valley in the desert. and agreed. on everything that lived. it was only those things in the stasis of impacted death that caused a divergence. Saturn occulted by the moon, the Pleiades looking on.

but what about teaching and academia? only rare words for that here. but what if I had written about teaching all along this long road? would there be anything learned there? or would it all be the same repeated staleness. at least there are the strong reactions from the few, always, a trail of glittering wakes, criss-crossing. nothing to do with the structural position of education in the developed world. but it is clear that academia in the US is somewhat isolated from the main stream of cultural activity. it’s not clear what the mechanism causing this isolation is. could be that general aspect of isolation and alienation that seems to be always a part of the society. or whatever. no pontiff. only hip-hop on the raydeeoh.

time again

long telephone conversations ensue, maxing out my 3000-minutes-a-month-nights-and-weekends limit. and be-ing in this house again. hmmmmmm. histories and futures converge, cross, fade, re-emerge, flicker behind passing tree branches, hung with prayer ribbons, over-arched by sky and sun. some of the colored strips, embodied prayers, are tangled in the branches.

particular depths of connection simply remain outside my normal thought patterns. (survival) stress is a key factor in limiting the pass of sensual energies. but that same stress raises the intensity of some flows. in or out. no clear. thing. but if the confident line goes. and the Others in suffering lift hands in supplication or praise. then the channeling must continue. so to speak. a description of contact with the Dalai Lama seems to confirm all this stuff. well, that was known, assumed, and those levels of electricity are ambient around us every moment. just switch on the juice! in the Sun, in the Sky, in the Ground, everywhere. not a naturalistic thing, simply in all things, blanket, in all dimensions, irrespective to the model system applied.

and seeing how the Other lives. watching that in a distant and rigid side-ward stare. no, just seeing the fragments float past eye from time to time. and time again.

gigs

tuned into KCRW, back in the broadband gigabit heaven. thinking how the life-track of each person is so terribly unique. a swirl of difference in a sea of sameness.

but disturbed about the present, the past, and the future. and the length of the pathway.

crossing

about to fly. Terminal one. not leaving baggage unattended except for the future. future baggage. slick, clean terminal, but I find a 120 volt jack. it’s been spray-painted black to blend in with the faux-basalt wall panels. the remains of the 2.5-inch masking tape around the edges, outlined in overspray. as usual, my torso length does not fit the chairs. JC Decaux is here, the advertising agency, owner of advertising space. in Helsinki, too. folded consumer spaces. Finland is pro-consumer, hyper-consumer. who have I been kidding? sure, socialized health-care and such, but that is only a veneer.

In his extended concept of art as social sculpture, he recognized a need to create conditions, a humus that would first make a lively form possible. I saw that in my area of work — that is, art — a concept (or no concept) prevailed that was no longer viable. This nonexistent concept has an affirmative character, and it claims it can do something it cannot — to do something that has to be learned and mastered is exactly what the traditional concept of art cannot achieve. — on a Joseph Bueys exhibition, Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung

exactly as I wish to do. setting up conditions for the lively growth and exchange of energies within an open framework full of possibility.

about to fly. clear and relatively temperate today in the City. sent Loki off home last night, out to the airport along with Stefan, who was sending Hildur, their au pair for the summer, back home on the same flight as Loki. departure was hurried and over in a few seconds. why am I regretting so many of the conditions I have imposed on my child’s life? guilt is destructive. Live Up!

shaping archives

a few days before leaving. the content of this site is drained of all substance by a lack of concentration and attention. single parenting. and decision-making about certain futures. Colorado looms again. but this time, I think it is a more-or-less permanent settlement. after the 12 years of nomadic Europeanisms. pity I don’t have all those years documented here. surely there is a large archive. 3-400 rolls of 35mm black-and-white negatives, thousands of letters written and received, hundreds of audio tapes made, but not much else. content, but not in the form that can be shared in a way that jacks up public attention to the self.

Basho says

Long walk in Kaivopuisto and Eira, to the coast, soaking up brilliant sunshine, ensemble with Sanna after some days together. But the physical movement is a mask I wear lately to cover the dis-satisfaction with just about everything I have been up to. Worked many hours on a short video from Riga at medialab, and because not being used to the software (in a daily way), and technical problems with the firewire interface, I end up doing all the editing, and then blow the whole thing, the WHOLE damn thing, and have to stop working before crushing the machine in my hands. Made the decision to leave Finland for the summer, if not permanently. Seems to lack any drama, or possibility opening into viable futures. Sitting at a table looking across to that beautiful other, sinking into the eyes, the eyes, seeing the reflected brilliance of the spring Light.

But when all has been said, I’m not really the kind who is so completely enamored of solitude that he must hide every trace of himself away in the mountains and wilds. It’s just that, troubled by frequent illness and weary of dealing with people, I’ve come to dislike society. Again and again I think of the mistakes I’ve made in my clumsiness over the course of the years. There was a time when I envied those who had government offices or impressive domains, and on another occasion I considered entering the precincts of the Buddha and the teaching rooms of the patriarchs. Instead, I’ve worn out my body in journeys that are as aimless as the winds and clouds, and expended my feelings on flowers and birds. But somehow I’ve been able to make a living this way, and so in the end, unskilled and talent-less as I am, I give myself wholly to this one concern, poetry. — Matsuo Munefusa (Basho)

year six

about to turn another corner with this document. moving into it’s sixth year, already (it seems) that there is a deep past. But the interface, well, as I see examples around of the possibilities of .php and other forms of SQL database management, maybe I will have the opportunity to migrate the data to a different form in the future. quite tired of the present form. tedious at best. should it matter? implementation of other scales, levels of interface. what is the point of all the contemporary race towards a significant new way for the human body to interact with the digital dataspace. if it is to come, it will come.

on the poverty line that, at least relatively, strikes across my reality. realizing that though life is tenuous. Not enough money to live by, and the heartache worry paralysis stuck to this life-position drains me. this whole academic year — a year that starts when crops have been brought in from the fields, and ends with the spring planting time — has been a drain in that respect. and the upcoming preparations to leave this place permanently. recalls the final exodus from eLAy. poor planning, like a night flight into the wilderness, with wolves following, coyotes howling, but strangely no tangible fears except for the rooted one of home-less-ness. did the nomad ever fear that? doubtful. the nomad fears only the city and immobility! the howl of the coyote, who laughs anyway at most of the world, is not a chilling energy, but a firing, stirring, generating source. and watching the stars is a source of wisdom.

a long discussion with Akeno yesterday evening. synchronization within spheres of thinking that are surficially (in the abstracted levels of cultural meme) disparate, but in depth, in root, in fabric, warp and woof, threaded by the energy that carries that same social abstraction.

but now, on to the NEXT year of this bundle of words.

7-11

already settled. sort of. in a student dormitory, probably old enough to be the father of most of my neighbors. weird to be here. consolations come in the form of a high-speed connection in the small 30-square-meter (322 square feet) flat. shoe box, and expensive. one workshop done.

this arrives via the [7-11] list:

There are moments when all our mental and emotional powers are acutely heightened and seem suddenly to blaze with the bright flame of consciousness. At such times, as if overwhelmed by presentiment, a foretaste of the future, something prophetic is envisioned by the astonished soul, and one’s whole being longs to live, cries out to live, and the heart, inflamed with a blind, fervent hope, invokes the future, despite its mystery and incertitude, its storms and tempests, if only it be life. It was just such a moment for me. — Fyodor Dostoevsky

cold futures

after two days of the next workshop, well, Sunday evening, and the snow is falling. email says that Helsinki is -20 Centigrade. or so. hmmmm. not looking forward to that extreme, but at least it is not as dark now.