The Wild Surmise

Sue Thomas poses some interesting questions in her search for possible synergies between the cyber and the natural. it’s an open project — add you own answers on her site!

Please describe where you lived and your strongest memories of nature during the years of your growing up. I’m interested in both positive and negative recollections of anything from the smallest plot to the largest wilderness, including animals and plants.

sotto voce: I am a native of Alaska, born there as a Cold War military child. My father, a senior Pentagon analyst, sport-hunted grizzly and polar bears among other magnificent animals. We moved to Boston, then Southern California, then Washington DC, living in suburban or rural fringes of cities. A primal memory was of viewing a total solar eclipse from a beach in Acadia National Park in the northeast state of Maine, USA, at five years old. Watching the sun be consumed, until there was only a shimmering ring of fire surrounding a black hole in the sky. My father was an amateur astronomer, and I accompanied him on a further four total eclipse expeditions. Along with these specific memories, there are general memories of sleeping in the woods, of eating around a fire, of washing in streams, mosquitoes, and dark star-brilliant skies. more “The Wild Surmise”

ubicomp

Inane story on NPR, dancing around the hype of ubiquitous computing (still?) — With the installation of a network of sensors on house plants that will send wifi info to their owner about their condition.

Who sets up this network? Who maintains it? Who interacts with it? When and why is it interacted with? Under what conditions is it necessary to interact with it? Or is it ever necessary to interact with it? Those people who are so interested in spreading digital networks somehow forget the necessity of manufacturing, deployment, installation, configuration, and, especially, maintenance. Not to mention the actual (life-)time necessary to interact with the data being gathered, tweaking it if necessary (or even possible) into a form that is understandable and usable to the idiosyncratic self, NOT the generic Everyman (who is the Grail of the data collectors).

These questions point back to the cultural (d)evolution which mandates a rolling over of systems from localized individual control to a centralized social command-and-control. Now, a big argument used by the ubicomp community is that the existence of these networks liberates the localized Everyman from the drudgery of some localized chore or another. Watering house plants, in this case. But there is a hidden factor — the subsequent reliance of the individual on the centralized system of production and (standardized control) — which creates and deploys these devices. It costs money to have these devices. And the greater the deployment, the larger the social infrastructure necessary to produce and deploy these devices and systems. Think, for example, of the mining and basic industry that provides the raw materials that go into the construction of the machines used to make and deliver the devices. The individual consequently must be participating in this larger system in order to receive the device. To participate in that system requires a payment of (life-)time (converted in the grind of social production to cash). So the (life-)time freed-up by the device is more than consumed by the (life-)time drawn from the individual in this general participatory process. Think of working at a long-term job so that you have the long-term income to pay for the apartment where you have the house plants. Stability is a core value here to consider here as well — without long-term stability (a stable environment), exotic house plants are imperiled. To have house plants assumes this long-term stability (which the social system relies on!). So not only is this further reliance on the deployed ubicomp system NOT about liberation — it is the opposite — it is about a subtle enslavement to a greater social system for which instability is anathema. The drawing-off of the lifetime (and life energy) of the individual into that social system is the primary source of power for the centralized social system.

All of this is on a sliding scale. But assuming that condition, there likely is a certain tipping point where one might go too far and not have the possibility of retrieving individual autonomy. Where is this point? Have we reached it? Clearly it is different in different social systems, despite the healthy state of global systems which draw their energy from widely-dispersed humans. Tolerance for autonomy is different in different socio-cultural systems. Intolerance for instability is generally higher in more organized systems (which came first, the need for organization or the intolerance for instability and dis-order?)

stories

I break down and have (huh?) to buy Loki a copy of the Harry Potter book (uff, even writing the name here is annoying). Why? Because each summer for the past however many that have been a target for the marketing of Rowling’s tale, someone — me on several occasions — has gotten him the latest installment for an early birthday present for the first of his usual two or three birthday parties. He always has one party in Amurika, sometimes with cousin Lexie, though she’s not here now; used to be that Amma Lillian would make him a nice cake, too. Then, when he gets back to Iceland there is one party for his friends and then another one for the adults in his family. more “stories”

fading away

Europe fading into its own spring, much warmer than normal, so that it wasn’t such a stretch for the body to cope with along the way. up well before dawn, Alex takes the same taxi to the airport. we meet some other retreating Pixelachers at the cafe in the departures lounge. then it’s off to London for the first of four flights and four security checks — five airports later, Nancy and Steve meet me at SFO. always the luxury of familiar faces at the airport.

final calculations, despite the incredible synergy of this trip, it ends up being fiscally unsustainable. gotta shift gears. move to another model. the dynamic of encounter does not need to change, except in some surficial forms, but the social venue of encounter has to shift radically. putting out such immense quantities of life-energy in this engagement process. saying it over and over in mind, the deep disappointment after spending life-time in the face-to-face and having that not be sustainable. at all. seems like the different Others engaged with over the course of the trip have a viable position in the social system, have found that sustainability. where is the missing element in the equation? nothing in life is guaranteed, but examining the momentary conditions that predominated, there was an essential element of stability which is missing in the current personal modus. making contacts, having discussions about situations, conditions, systems, solutions, and most importantly, ways of seeing the world, and ways of action and remembering the reasons for be-ing. but the lack of sustainability remains the upper-most issue to be solved soon. converting attentions into cash.

the party’s over

beds empty and so the party slowly ends, folks departing reluctantly from orbit around the Manor and each other. remarkable to participate in such a once-in-a-lifetime event. something bittersweet, not to return to the same time and place, ever, again. and while each Cartesian moment is never repeated, ever, there are some that more charged than others with the enlivened energy of life movement. the last three days were such times. an amazing constellation of people of all ages and sorts. and the constellation assembled by the Light and gravity of this one person. how that is. how that kind of dynamic evolves through a life lived in some completeness and open-heartedness. I make a long sonic redux of the four days:

(00:55:14, stereo audio, 106 mb)

made a series of group portraits as people departed the temporary manor-home. not catagoric, but it included a fair number of folks. still getting used to the Nikon, and becoming handicapped without bifocals. and cannot rely on the auto-focus device. but the eye enjoys the process.

food? leftovers did not include the main courses and deserts, all of which were delicious, thanks to Tanya (for directing the kitchen for dinner (for 45) on Friday — a fantastic chicken curry), and Duncan (dinner (for 75!) on Saturday — venison, mushroom gravy, gratin Dauphinoix, red cabbage, various green things, and truffle torte with raspberry sauce).

the party begins

this entry will morph in the next days, I’m really behind in getting images and entries online, so…

definitely here now. the house grows to accommodate the arriving crowd as the day wears along. several children, a dog, and a wide variety of humans. I prep chicken for dinner under the direction of Tanya, along with Jane and Jez. a fine curry from all fresh ingredients in the outrageously stocked kitchen (stocked with the food that packed the van to the ceiling). brought into the dining room set for 45 people. tonight it’ll be set for 75 folks. making sound recordings, images, and a little video tape. trying to not get too caught up in documentation to simply enjoy. massage is the theme for today — several masseuses were hired, and so folks are disappearing and wandering back to the first floor in bathrobes looking refreshed.

take a walk with Jeff and Lorna. to the church and graveyard, and around about.

over the door of the church:

Keep thy foot when thou goest to the House of God and be more ready to hear than to give the sacrifice of fools — Ecclesiastes 5:1

snow-drops everywhere. rain comes intermittently, darkening the sky, and flushing the air, which already has a marine feel to it, with more clean moisture. finally head back to the house after taking a wander out to the huge Cedars-of-Lebanon in what remains of the extended garden beyond the croquet field in the back yard.

steam is building, literally, in the hot-water heating system, and in the party inertia.

the gift of attention

in the days preceding the material frenzy that so characterizes the holiday in the consuming world, I ponder my own relation to the holiday. what could be nicer than receiving a gift? something usable in the course of survival or something completely use-less except for the aesthetic energy it slow-releases to the eye or ear over time. or something that touches on the architecture of the relationship of giver to receiver.

for me the highest gift in the sped-up road-warrior world of 21st century amurika would be the gift of attention. now, I’m not talking about the obsessively sought attention of media-to-star, the ego-centric attraction of appearances, of shiny and slick surfaces, of painted-over cardboard facades, of glimmering particles that exert the false-attraction of material desires. nor the gloming and needy self-centered-ness that requires vampiric sustenance.

but more the binary and reciprocated exchange of attentive presence where the floating self might turn full-faced to the other and in Light and in Gravity — making Light, making Gravity — the two beings take up temporary residence in each others field-of-attraction and field-of-reflection. this is the gift of life, lived life-time shared. attentively shared, focused, concentrated. a gift without value, except for the value of life-time passed. a commodity in limited supply for each, such as the Moirae decree. no higher value of gift except for the giving of life to save a life.

but what is the essence of this gift of attention? in the exchange, sharing of life-time, the self is open, and in that open-ness, adsorbs the be-ing of the other. in this, the self is changed, evolves, realizes the absolute character of other-ness, and what a precious gift it is — to provide the opportunity of change. and between this change, and the apprehension of difference, occurring in an unstable space of the not-knowing, creative spark flashes. and we become more than we previously were.

Mauve Desert

Adriene’s CD, Mauve Desert, based on the novel of the same title by Nicole Brossard, circulates around the space that is this place: the desert. I’ve never found it circumscribable with my own texts, or in images that I’ve been able to spin out from the hours and days spent wandering in these liminal locations. images, with still attributes seemed to have some potential to gather the loose photons but hardly re-present the fullness. nor do they touch on the possibilities that allow the heart to be monitored by internal ear. finding indescribable a surmounting way of this time of life. where a complex mélange of life problems flow through each day. job, location, art production.

The desert is indescribable. reality rushes into it, rapid Light. The gaze melts. Yet this morning. Very young, I was already crying over humanity. With every new year I could see it dissolving in hope and in violence. Very young. I would take my mother’s Meteor and drive into the desert. There I spent entire days, nights, dawns. Driving fast and the slowly, spinning out the Light in its mauve and small lines which like veins mapped a great tree of life in my eyes. — Nicole Brossard

Adriene’s compound, Hobe Chobe, on the outskirts of Twenty-Nine Palms, is a funky array of block houses, sheds, a 1950’s vintage travel trailer, a Buddhist bee hive, and assorted spaces shaded by some nice eucalyptus trees. dusty, I’m wishing for the fat shop-vac in Prescott to tidy things up from the infernal entropic advances of the desert system on this modest infrastructure. Adriene calls it humble, but Brad and I find it quite inviting, and in the end, after we figure everything out, comfortable. the weather is perfect for the situation — a bit warm for the season, high 80’s during the day, low 50’s at night. as the full moon wanes, the stars begin to appear.

start: time:money:energy

lines of the hand, with the skin thinning, turning to trapezoidal textures that shimmer differently than they used to do. cool tonight, here at altitude, in the dry west, when the sun goes, warmth goes as well. remembering the nights in the desert, so many times. no matter the heat of the day, the night gives the heat back to the darkness of the sky. only in deep summer, is there more heat delivered than can be reflected away, so that only at the null hour, a time before dawn, does the air loosen itself of the burden of heat. but as soon as fall comes, with a couple days of cloud cover, the night air is an empty chill. more “start: time:money:energy”

last night

the last night on the island. darkness drifting after some late afternoon storms, with hail even. time. to go. gathering things into the usual one suitcase, one travel bag, one day-pack. realizing that I might never be back here, because other things might happen. anything can happen, anytime. on the phone around Scandinavia (taking maximum advantage of the telecom possibilities). so many items to consider, with workshops popping up in Norway, Lithuania, Denmark, and Iceland during just a short period in the fall. keeps the blood moving and the mind alert. always that way. coming three things at once.

with the three-month residency behind now, reflections? nope. life passing, life passing, life passing. concern about this makes for time burnt without even the rising smoke of holy incense. only floating in the drift of human development. is the historicity of change merely the gained perspective of time spent in this incarnation? the perception of the increasingly predictable in genesis, but largely chaotic in application, range of human interventions that destroy life rather than nurture it? and the Buddhist who is not attached to all of it.

okay, giving up for now. closing connections, unplugging cables, powering down, packing the last bits and pieces.

launching

readying things for another launch. over-busy, but enjoying seeing people. still have severe pain with the tooth item, ibuprophen keeping me going. that and exercise, good food, good conversation. dropped in on Kaisu’s opening, saw Perttu at Kiasma after swimming in the afternoon. then back to the burbs with Sanna, followed by a too meaty pizza at the ubiquitous middle-eastern-run pizza house and a psychedelic sunset on the ferry home late. time in this place shrivels like a lettuce leaf on Mojave asphalt in July. even life time seems to be doing the same. it’s going to be over soon.

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.

woodworking

winter storm looms, hyped by the weather channel and other means of mediation. forgot to sniff the air to see what’s coming. or so.

following the kitchen remodel story that Ellen relates, with a cross-cultural perception gap. thinking that I could do that kind of work. wood-working, after the process of gathering my grandfather’s tools together in his single massive redwood toolbox — my namesake, Charles B., who, for some time in his life, built houses for a living — all the work done without electric power. so, the toolbox full of an array of devices for creating all the forms of wood one would need to construct a house in the late 19th – early 20th centuries. how to do that now. and how time and care is a constitutive mode to arrive at energized wooden objects.

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…

entry drugs

it also occurred to me that I have always been so into remote presence that it represents a real threat to my psychological integrity. (see above). each day these days I hesitate calling what few people here I would call friends. and then I understand that I have few here. few anywhere, because I am always elsewhere. and age is a factor. more difficult to make new friends. there is always something missing — that depth of time-passed that is wrapped into old friendships. and everybody seems, at this ending/beginning time, to be buried in their respective places, nothing but survival on mind, and media in eye. and a curious nonchalant dread of the future. “email is the entry drug” Volker quotes the head of CISCO systems as saying. he is more than right.

dads & kids camping

around noon Loki and I arrive at Rick and Sally’s place after a morning cleaning the house and straightening things up. father’s and kids weekend camping trip is the activity planned. Chris will come with Sonja, his 18-month daughter, Rick with Holly, 7, and Natalie, 2, and Loki and I. it is a funny reunion for the three of us — we lived together in what seems to be a previous life-time at 148 Washington Street in Golden. The second-to-last house on the way out of town to Boulder, we would say in the way of directions. nothing like that in this moment — the old place is swamped by California-style tract-housing! now here we are, 18 years later. the biggest change being the presence of parent and child units. but the energy of the weekend is compact and intense, like the history of this relationship, or complex of relationships. formative relationships from a time when life was short yet, waxing, and made with the broad statements of being-in-the-moment. making a start on Saturday, shortly after noon, Rick and I and the kids in one car, Chris and Sonya in the other. the first planned meeting at the Safeway in Frisco. we make that meeting with no problems and stock-up on food for the next 24-hours, the thought weighing on us all in one way or another. it takes awhile because the issue of getting a Hibachi to cook the chicken on. that solved, we make the run to Winfield, Colorado. about one-hundred miles from Denver. in the middle of the Collegiate Peaks region. we find a camp-spot that I had used several times in ancient history. the kids pile out while dads erected tents, cooked dinners, tried to keep everybody happy and safe, and attempted to relax in the splendid location.

Lahti

Lahti is the sister city of Akureyri in Iceland, although it is several times larger in population. It sits on a lake (as do most (all?) cities, towns, and villages in Finland), and claims to be a Business Center in the country. It is also known for its ski jumping towers. The morning and evening are spent taking care of paperwork, correspondance, and some planning for the course here, as well as settling into my room which is actually in the school building itself, right across from the main office. I will be here for four weeks — almost the entire month of February — not counting weekend forays into Helsinki to visit friends, network, and shop (hah!). I write to Kate in Ann Arbor:

sotto voce: Much has gone down, much goes down, and much will be going down, until all is down, dirty, and done, then all will rise, not for the judge, but for the Judgment of what has gone down before the time arrives for it to be judged. like, something strikes the FAN. and other things are simply passed over. the good, the bad, and that which is neither — the contents of time-bound life and living.

When I arrive in Lahti last night, I am met by two Spanish exchange students who find a cab to take me to the school. They were waiting for a compatriot to arrive, but he is apparently delayed at the airport and was not on the same bus as I. All this reminds me of the incredible opportunities young people who are studying have in Europe at the moment. One wonders where the constant exchanging of these intelligent adventurers will lead in a Europe that has seen few decades of peace in its entire history. Most of the art academies have a transient population that is steady at 15-20 percent of the student body, and a majority of students will take studies for at least a half-year at another institution before graduating. The ERASMUS and NORDPlus consortium exchange programs include students all across greater Europe, and frequently institutions have multiple contacts on every continent. This mixing forms strong and intimate bonds across cultural borders — something I have been a proponent of for years. In my class I will have four Spaniards, a Belgian, and six Finns. Nice. I have a theory that email and these exchange programs will have a fundamental effect on the cultural life of Europe. Not only do the students have the opportunity to make contacts, but they have the tool to maintain dynamic collaborative situations. This also has the effect of leveling regional cultural differences, but allows for new forms and identities to arise. It turns out that my old friend Terhi is actually attending school at the Institute, and she is here when I arrive — it is a very pleasant surprise, as I had not heard from her for a few months since we worked together on net.sauna at Ars Electronica last September. She is working towards a continuing education BA diploma after some years of not studying. In the frigid temperatures, after a quick tour of the whole school, we head to the closest bar that serves Guinness. Back in, Finland! This time in winter. Full winter, though not as dark at all as expected, guess that was lived out between Arizona and Iceland. During the last few days I have had several instants where I will shift into a state of concentration and observations begin to flow. I am hoping to harness these energies in the next days to begin, well, to continue work on something of substance here.

landscape of childhood

The drive up here from Virginia starts with a short detour past the house where I lived from 1965-76. The landscape of my childhood in winter. So it was, although much of the nearby farmland has been butchered in the wake of suburbia that is burgeoning and multiplying as Legion. The road that our family house is on has changed little. The houses are still small, the trees bigger, many of the same people live along it, as I saw on the mailboxes. But the house. Well. Other people live in it. Maybe I will stop by on the way back south and ask if I can walk through the yard to the pond in the woods behind down the hill — to show Loki. And to make some photographs. To fix in Silver the volume of time that has moved through my senses. I am feeling not old, but as one who has lived long. A certain richness has moved into my experience. The layers of time and space and experience have grown to be a fertile loam where groves of narrative being can erupt in a single evening, in a single conversation. Sparked to life by the intersection of life-energies. Old friends, new friends. So it goes. We are staying with my oldest friend, Gary, his wife Ellen, and their daughter Sarah who is the same age as Vika. We speak in memories, where each phrase has a resonance unobtainable in new friendships. That resonance of historical experience, built up over time and time again, multiplied and divided.