First Class

First day in class! Wow, I am so pleased that joined this class. It is in such a wonderful setting, both inside and out. Looking around right now there is a coiled wire that seems to be connecting this computer to the outside world. It looks far too scientific but at the same....very very cool. Outside, I parked someone where I probably should not have parked but my worries soon dissipated when I began to look around at the beautiful scenery that surrounds us. I wanted to stop and take a picture of the fountains next to the Duderstadt but also wanted to get to class on time so I told myself I would capture the image on the way back. So far, I am really very very pleased with this class because it gives me a time and place to reflect on my other classes. Its a time to collect my thoughts, draw inspiration from my fellow classmates and my very insightful professor, and take time to think because life is oftentimes too busy to reflect and think about what we are doing on a day to day basis. I am glad that I am officially an author in this blog and that I can now begin this journey, this semester, in this class. Amen.

Tapestry

The walls in my room are covered in tapestries. I have two tapestries with trees covering my windows, a sun tapestry on my ceiling between me and the main room light, and  one more on my biggest wall. These tapestries are more than just adornments on my otherwise blank spaces.  They're a reminder of the beauty that can spring from the chaos and infinity of everything. 

If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro' narrow chinks of his cavern.

Jean Piaget, a developmental psychologist, has a model of development and learning. It employs three processes: Assimilation, Accommodation, Equilibrium. A quick explanation: When we are young, we have no schema of interpreting the world around us. What happens though is that we develop certain schema such as language to help interpret the things that we see around us. This schema is at its basest a certain pattern of firings between neurons in your brain. So when we see a tree, a certain series of neurons go off, and we recognize it as a tree; we have assimilated that perception of tree into our previous schema of "tree." If we perceive something that doesn't fit into any of our old patterns, we have to accomodate, or make a new pattern. After the accommodation is made, we reach equilibrium. 

I hate this theory. I don't want to put everything I see into boxes that I've previously made. I like to think that everything is a unique tapestry. The patterns of my perception are new every second; the tapestry of my existence is constantly being adjusted and changed. I want to open the way that I think and see.  I don't want to be imprisoned by schema of my own creation. I want to free myself from it. I want to feel sound, and taste light. 

Lies that life is black and white
Spoke from my skull. I dreamed
Romantic facts of musketeers
Foundationed deep, somehow
Ah, but I was so much older then
I’m younger than that now

Miss-Poemed

I've been thinking quite a bit about the connection/disconnect between thought and perception - like what Sid mentioned in the end of his last post.

I'm currently taking a class on verse-speaking through the RC.  It's better described as an independent study, as the class consists of two students working on the reading and then performance of various poems.  Our last assignment was to find an Edgar Allen Poe poem of our choice and to prepare it for presentation.  I selected "A Valentine," which I found particularly cool due to the hidden message in the poem - start at the first line first letter, second line second letter, etc. until the end and it spells out the full name of the woman to whom Poe was writing the poem - neat, eh?

As I performed the poem, my prof followed along in a collected works of Poe he had on hand. Throughout the reading, he kept giving me bizzarre looks (granted, he is a theater prof with dramatic facial expressions).  When I finished, he brought his copy of the poem over to compare to mine.  My version was riddled with typos, errors, or different words altogether which, consequently, led to a very different presentation of the poem.

In truth, this occurred because it was an entirely different poem.  Then I began to wonder, who owned this new poem? That is, the "incorrect" one I found online.  Then I realized there had to be a third poem - a mid tine poem - the poem that was spoken by me and heard/perceived by my prof.  This poem that only existed once, in that very first instant that I performed the poem (without knowing it differed from the original by Poe) and my prof heard it (expecting the original by Poe).

This "mistake" became alive and then was...lost...?

I'm curious about this unique realm of perception and limited creation.  I wonder if my project could somehow involve delving deeper into this...though I'm not entirely sure how....thoughts? comments? suggestions?


Here are the two versions of the poems (sorry, the "third" poem can't be captured and typed :) )


Version 1 - the "incorrect" one

A Valentine

For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,
Shall find her own sweet name, that nestling lies
Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
Search narrowly the lines!- they hold a treasure
Divine- a talisman- an amulet
That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure-
The words- the syllables! Do not forget
The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor
And yet there is in this no Gordian knot
Which one might not undo without a sabre,
If one could merely comprehend the plot.
Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus
Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing
Of poets, by poets- as the name is a poet's, too,
Its letters, although naturally lying
Like the knight Pinto- Mendez Ferdinando-
Still form a synonym for Truth- Cease trying!
You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you can do. 

Edgar Allan Poe

---from PoemHunter.com,http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-valentine/

Version 2 - the "correct" one 

A Valentine

For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,

     Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,

Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies

     Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.

Search narrowly the lines! – they hold a treasure

     Divine – a talisman – an amulet

That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure –

     The words – they syllables! Do not forget

The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor!

     And yet there is in this no Gordian knot

Which one might not undo without a sabre,

     If one could merely comprehend the plot.

Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering

     Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus

Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing

     Of poets, by poets – as the name is a poet’s too.

Its letters, although naturally lying

     Like the knight Pinto – Mendez Ferdinando –

Still form a synonym for Truth – Cease trying!

     You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you can do.

-Edgar Allen Poe 

Project Sparking

After reading Dalia's response to Weight, I think I might have the seeds to a project. Trying to understand wholeness, I've become attached to the idea of the multidimensional. In response to Dalia's post, I replied:

The way I see how stories are, in their wholeness, likens to the concept of counting. We can count from 1 to 3 and know that a 2 is between them. However, when we begin to acknowledge the infinite numbers between 1 and 3 with the introduction of a decimal point... I guess that's when things get interesting. We could spend a whole life time recording those numbers and never be close to its infinity.

Enumeration of Cantor's Diagonal Argument, Image: Guillermo Martínez

The concept of an infinity existing in a (seemingly) finite space confuses and fascinates me. I'm obviously not the first to find it beautiful. The mathematician Georg Cantor published his proof of the diagonal argument in 1891 illustrating and describing these numbers as "uncountable." You really can find poetry in anything, but like my friend once said, "Everything can be poetry, but not everything is poetry." Maybe we are tasked with finding poetry in the density of things. I like to think of curiosity as such. It seems that I need to read up on mathematics concepts to make some more (other) sense. Something I really appreciate in empirical studies are their often boring diagrams and charts. For me, it makes more sense to visually see ideas rather than getting lost in foreign vocabularies. Infographics have become more popularized now that they're featured in the New York Times. These graphs require the proper ratio of the quantitative and visual. It's a serious art form, study of design, and, really, psychology.

Mark Lombardi, Chicago Outfit and Satellite Regimes
c. graphite on paper, 48 1 / 8 x 96 5 / 8 inches, Image: Francesco Franchi

Luckily, I have a collection of books, still unread, or partially read. My study of design has inspired my affinity for Edward Tufte, a statistician and designer of information visualizations. I recently revisited his book, Envisioning Information, for an astronomy class (that's been way over my head). It seems like nothing short of necessary to make sense of , or interpret, information. It's like blinking; we do it without realizing when, where, and how we're doing it.  I'm interested in how we tangibly visualize our connections. I think I'll test out how far I can take this mind-mapping and research the Method of Ioci, the memory palace. I recall Mark Lombardi, an artist who specializes in mapping conspiracy theories.  It may be the obsessive compulsive tendencies talking, but his maps are so clean and orderly. Ideas are messy.

Project Thought 1

In regard to my last post, I have begun to brew ideas for a project for this course. "I want to tell the story again. Tomorrow. The next day. Next week. Next year. Because each of them are different--I rewrite my life for every second that I am." Perhaps I will document how I choose to define myself, or characterize myself, everyday. I will document the me time that I spend, that works to contribute to my story. Perhaps I will paint, perhaps I will laugh. Perhaps I will do nothing for myself. Each documentation will be a picture--some will be full, some will be blank. And this sequence of photos, for the sake of telling my own story, will tell a story in itself, of the semester--of my progress as a person. Again, just an idea. Thoughts? Suggestions?

My first thoughts about Weight

I think about time a lot, exploring the ambiguity of it in my endeavors to analyze how we choose to spend each second we have. Yet Jeanette Winterson brought up the concept of the story, the concept that we don't necessarily 'have' seconds. Time is not a possession, a measure, a number. Time is a process. And it is this process, this story, that I began to think about this summer. Everyone has a story. How then, do we delve into the story that makes up the person standing next to you? In front of you? Behind you? We believe our experiences to be shared, yet our stories cannot be. In the context of our story, an experience has an infinite spectrum of value, of significance. What Winterson was able to shed light on was the power that telling a story, perhaps told again, perhaps rewritten, can have on our perceptions. Your story is my story rewritten. It is here that I began to make the connection to Limited Fork Theory. This idea of infinitely unique stories--the extended fork--is bounded by the finite experiences we share with those around us--the limit. We do, however, have the opportunity to gain knowledge for ourselves particularly about the people around us, working to understand the stories that undermine each of our characters. Each of you reading this has value, in many different ways to many different people; in acknowledging that, how many of my story exist? Which one is correct? Are any of them defined or correct? I want to tell the story again. Tomorrow. The next day. Next week. Next year. Because each of them are different--I rewrite my life for every second that I am.

Excerpts from Into the Garden

Skip and Rover, Photo Credit: Debra Prinzing,
Photographer: Charles Dean

I'll admit I had mixed feelings about electronic books, but after reading a few novels (and even textbooks for classes),  it's growing on me. It's nice not carrying a brick load of books. Over the weekend, I finished reading Into the Garden with Charles: A Memoir. I guess I'll share a few of the things I highlighted:

"I had no idea what I was doing, only an image in my mind of the effect I wanted."

This is an accurate description of my attitude, or feelings, in general. I think it's especially true because I'm a student, in the academia sense. Something that drives me crazy about the art & design program is its lack of technical training, and over-emphasis on concept. This line reminds me of the frustration I encountered when I couldn't externalize a physical representation of what it was I saw in my head. It's like pouring oil in an eyedropper without a very small funnel. My end product would just piss me off because it looked nothing like I imagined. It was a mess beyond the compromise of time, knowledge, and skill.  It's something like a compulsion, ideas. No one likes to be bloated with ideas. What are ideas when they're stuffed in a closet?

"Hoeing, mowing, and composting, I turned fifty without noticing how I had gotten there, paying more attention to my trees and shrubs than to myself, only to realize one day that I was at that point in my life where I had more past than future."

This is probably related to my premature post-grad anxiety, but I almost wanted to cry when I read this. The idea of being so young, but feeling so old scares me. I hate those moments when you see your parents and realize they're getting old. This might sound stupid because, of course, aging is inevitable. I'm not convinced that feeling like "you have more past than future" is purely related to age. I think it has more to do with ambition and your confidence in, at least, trying. 

Maira Kalman, Image Credit: Strand Book Store, Illustration: Maira Kalman

"I had no intention of ever finishing the painting. [...] The pictures I had in my mind were of mature gardens, generations old and somewhat untended, overgrown nearly to wildness. I wanted to see this in my lifetime."

Nothing is finished. Ever.

" 'Anything can happen in a garden.' He went back to sleep."

I really enjoyed how the idea was followed by "He went back to sleep." It reminds of the things you say (or in my case, do) before falling asleep, probably in a half-sleep already. For example, before falling asleep, I click my teeth a few times as if I'm cold. I only learned this three years ago because my boyfriend had noticed it. I'm not sure what it means scientifically, but I like to imagine it's my way of clicking my heels three times and saying "There's no place like [dreaming]." 

"He didn't get the name exactly right because of his slight dyslexia, and this made me smile. I liked his version better."

There are different versions of everything, like diversions (DI-versions). Is it more accurate to call them panversions? On a side note, Sometimes I like being sentimental. The book was easier to read because I enjoyed the cute romance. 

A few excerpts on time, I'm still trying to piece out:

"Time repeats in endless cycles of growth and death, patterns full of surprise and beauty, no matter how fleeting. The future is sun after rain, no more than that and all of that. [...] When I was a child, a summer day seemed a whole year long. No matter how many ways I found to entertain myself, from mornings bicycling to evenings chasing fireflies in our Riverdale backyard, there always seemed to be more time left to fill. Now my days go by so quickly, and my list of chores is so long, I can't find enough time."

"I no longer trusted the measuring of time in standard units. Time had morphed into a multifaceted, palpitating, unfamiliar entity, continually reconfiguring, sometimes welcoming, often frightening."

By the way, I included this illustration of Maira Kalman because it just reminded me of the photo of Skip and Rover. Something about Skip's character made me think of Maira's whimsy.