Goliard Dream

Van Gogh it ain't

Well, Friederich over at 2Blowhards has bravely published a very cute drawing of a Freudian grouping of stuffed animals. He has challenged his intrepid readers to contribute their own secret scribbles. Never having been one to turn down a challenge (well, almost never...), I herewith offer my own scribble:

Red Lady

She has no subconscious connotations as far as I know: she was an utterly cool model I saw a set of pictures of in the New York Times fashion magazine a lot of years ago.

counter point

Beck in the morning on a summer's day. The end is in sight for 1630 Arch Street. What is left to do? Paint the halls, finish the ceiling, finish the floors upstairs, rebuild the bathroom. Finish the trim. Help get her cabinet together. Make there is CAT-5 cable running upstairs for DSL. Get our own telephone service in. And is the end in sight?

Spare us.

Such people as write, write best about what they know best, or what is closest to their hearts. For some people, these things are large over arching concerns. For others, they are the small still events. At this time, I think it is the small still events I write best about. The grand scope seems too far away, too stilted for my language. Perhaps this changes over time. For me, the most telling, poignant memories are the moments, or impressions. A tree on my drive, a cup of coffee at the cafe on the way to work, or on my day off.

If I could only choose which moments I live fully in, then it would not bother me so much that I spend eight hours a day doing nothing (figuratively speaking. Of course I do something all day - it is just not important to my life)

If only I could turn off the frustration. Even the least consequential customer at the shop could be fodder for a tale. For instance, instead of just turning on the sales spiel, and turning off my brain, I could examine the customer. What are they doing there, anyway? We have professional musicians - what drama or imaginative invention could they be incorporated into? The shop is obviously only one small, probably insignificant stop on their daily round. But - suppose it were not? Suppose the shop were actually some critical nexus - that acted as a probability portal between alternate realities?

Suppose our performances as sales clerks and customers were vital to a key power link in the nexus? We only seem like a simple shop; selling strings, advising on repairs, ordering supplies, testing violins. We only appear to be performing mundane, daily tasks. But in fact, each movement, each task is an arcane representation of deep metaphysical, metamagical incantations; even the smallest of which is guaranteed to have a significant impact on the entire operation and core structure of the solar system. Ours, and the myriad alternate systems.

Do I sell the student a Super Sensitive E string; steel, with a ball end, or do I convince them to purchase an Infeld Red E string; gold plated steel, with a loop end? Subtle and myriad metacalculations whiz furiously through the aether as I make the pitch - he does not go for the Infeld Red: a promising side branch of reality shuts with an imperative bang. There will be no time when the student (in his professional life he is a chef) will discover the perfect recipe for tira misu. But wait! He chooses, not the Super Sensitive E string, but instead the Prim E string, orchestra gauge, steel, with a ball end. No perfect tira misu, but in far off Tibet, a huge piece of a mountain suddenly breaks off its side, and comes crashing down the mountain, creating a massive avalanche, because of which over twenty people are killed. When the dust and snow settle, it is revealed that beneath that crag lay an uncountably ancient edifice - massive, complex; from some culture that is clearly not of earth. This is the first unequivocally alien artifact that has ever been found. It causes a sensation. We will never be the same again.

And what would have happened if he had purchased the Super Sensitive E string? We'll never know, will we...

Call me 16 kinds of a fool

And as if I wasn't having enough fun getting our new domicile in order, and moving, I sort of volunteered to organize my father's 80th birthday party. *groan*

Actually, I might as well. Getting to 80 with one's wits intact (if not one's hearing) is a splendid achievement. A party will be fun. He already celebrated the actual day spending the weekend in San Francisco with my mom listening to the Bavarian Radio Orchestra playing all the Brahms symphonies. (all 4 of them...) But really, there ought to be a bit more of a bash. Someone else has already organized an academic tribute for him next week, so I am hanging our little party on its coat-tails. It will be fun. I and my friends will play chamber music. We will play Rasumovsky 3, I think. Both my brothers will be in attendance. That will be a treat. Lots of people that my dad isn't expecting will be there. There will be food and drink, conversation, music, fellowship. Lovely.

I think I will take June off mentally. They can knock all they want, I won't be home.

Yesterday, I gave in to my inner nag, and cleaned my son's room. I swore I wouldn't, but then I thought I saw something large and primeval crawling through the dust of ages on his floor...

On the bright side, I think my career as an administrative assistant to a financial planner may come gently to an end in July some time.

in answer to a Gentil query

Here is the poem that Allan half quoted:

Springtime morning in Avalle
And I don't care what the priests say:
I'm going down to the river today
On a springtime morning in Avalle.

When I'm all grown up, come what may,
I'll build a boat to carry me away
And the river will take it to Tigana Bay
And the sea even further from Avalle.

But wherever I wander, by night or by day,
Where water runs swiftly or high trees sway,
My heart will carry me back and away
To a dream of the towers of Avalle.

A dream of my home in Avalle.

It is indeed from Tigana, by Guy Gavriel Kay. Allan muttered something about "swag" from the Frankenstein shop. Is that so? Or have I, by googleing the author and book, disqualified myself from the process?

It took me a while to get the poem, because it took a while for the book to arrive here from Powell's Bookstore in Seattle, my current on-line book place. They are huge, they are independent, and they are the greatest bookstore on earth (eat your heart out, Amazon!).

Moving experience 2

Moving is a royal unmitigated pain in the ass. Really.

worlds beyond count

The young math student had been slogging through a maze of problems and charts all summer. The next year, he was to take some very challenging courses at his college, and he felt that he was not ready. He had always suffered from insecurities about his ability to comprehend mathematics fully - needlessly, from the perspective of his instructors, who viewed him as the brightest scholar in their program. Still, from his standpoint, there was always something missing, something too sketchy in his understanding of material presented in all of his math courses. He hoped that a huge, concentrated effort over this break would clarify the stumbling blocks he still experienced with sections of the last few courses.

In the past, there had always been some point after which studying seemed to be pointless; where his brain seized up, and he could no longer push himself any further along a particular path. In some cases, he blamed an ineffective teacher, lacking sufficient skill to elucidate some critical section of theory. In other cases, he blamed himself for not having sufficient powers of concentration to reach a perfect understanding of the text, or just from having too many other competing tasks which diverted him from a satisfactory level of understanding.

This summer seemed somehow different. Events transpired to allow him to devote his entire attention to study. There was no job to break his concentration, no need to make meals, no other courses to distract him. As well, he had a brilliant and enthusiastic tutor frequently available to rekindle his determination to master the material he had learned up to this time. He felt that he had never been so close before to true understanding, he had never before felt the euphoric rush of adrenalin that comes with knowing that ultimate solutions lay in his hands. For the last few days, he had hardly slept; his eyes were scratch now with the cumulative lack of sleep. The particular set of concepts had become more and more abstract and complex, until they could almost be visualized as edifices, structures, forests, panoramic views, an entire world.

He had become so lost in equations, and algorithmic structures that he did not know whether he was upside down or right side up. At times, he would be beset by sensations of falling, as if all the multiplying systems, logical structures, equations, complexes were rushing past him. Faster and faster they rushed, sometimes emitting a gleam or glimpse of some overlying form, but coming and going too quickly to ascertain anything about their nature. The sensation of falling grew ever greater. Anxiety set in - acute. What would happen when he reached the ground? Worse yet, what would happen if there was no ground - and he would just fall forever? At some pivotal point, long streamers of light began to penetrate the murky gloom of his headlong journey. At some point, he realized that he had not been falling at all, he had been rising the whole time. The overall darkness and confusion he had been passing though had obscured from him the direction of his passage.

At long last, he burst from the clouds and dimness and turmoil, and found himself high above a perfect world, hovering in a pellucid sky, calmly and effortlessly suspended in the aether. He stayed awhile, as his pounding heart slowed down; reveling in the calm stasis, the clear quietness of this serene atmosphere. At last, curious as to his new surroundings, he flew, or rather glided, as there was no real sensation of effort in his movement, about this new land. He saw below him and at some distance, a picturesque mountain group, lightly forested. As he drew closer, details of the various elements became clear. He saw with fascination that the surfaces which at a distance seemed smooth and unbroken, developed breaks and crazing which took on strangely regular patterns the nearer he came. Suddenly he realized what the patterns reminded him of. They were visual representations of the equations and formulae he had been so laboriously acquiring for the last few weeks. The closer he got, the more distinct the patterns became, until the objects themselves were obscured by the patterns. Entranced by their symmetry, he watched enthralled as the equations slid gracefully and languidly around within their boundries. He stayed watching the interplay between the symbols for an unmeasured time. When at last he emerged from his reverie, he looked around, only to discover that every object around him, both near and far displayed this singular patterned property. As he got closer to each one, their symbolic and logical natures became visible. Each one was different; as different as one snowflake from another. Each one was exquisite. He glided from object to object, delighting in their myriad formulations. At some point, he felt a strange sensation - he had seen no other souls here, but it seemed to him that someone or something was trying to get his attention; tapping his shoulder, or calling his name;

"Samuel? Samuel? Are you in there? I've been here over an hour, and you haven't budged an inch from that table. Are you OK?"

He wrenched his attention with difficulty...back to his study table where he was; had been working. Disoriented, he mumbled something to his tutor about daydreaming, that he was fine. Satisfied, his tutor left. Samuel, however, was not sure he was actually fine. Where had he been? It had seemed so real. So very, very real and beautiful! Logical, perfect, unmarred. Real enough that he had been able to touch a curiously shaped rock and feel the unique abstract pattern of which it consisted pulsating under his hand. The more he thought about it, the more reasonable it seemed to him, that he had fabricated an entire universe based around the mathematics he had been studying.

Was it possible to come and go at will from this new found glorious place? Or was this just some hallucination born of intense mental pressure and lack of sleep? How dreary this "real" world was that he had returned to!

but is it art?

Here was a fun thing: a poem generator!

Here is one that was generated from a page from my site:

Goliard Dream February 22, 2003 arcanum Ordinary things
conceal the tyranny, nacreous glinting
pearls flow Knowledge is power ,
is a night
with no meaning; my mind, awhirl with
our fellow men through urban decor.
with loathing and walls
are aliens from
the day
anytime of coffee, lightly
mixed with loathing and hold the
beginning of pain. a single piano,
run down on
a string. dancing to
use. why should give thanks.

I especially liked "lightly mixed with loathing". This is actually a meta poem, as the page I used to generate it is my own poetry page. Here is another from an archive page:

Goliard Dream I start spraying,
but I believe parts working and not be glad I
would manage the beings
whose motives
I have
the moment and Once she turned me is surf
the kitchen, Why I remember that
leaks forth. But wait! poignant
reminders of money but
how can opener
No need to be the sun, and sunlight
streaming in. my friends. lovers, children, me. laugh made
me cry or just when
his site
all I had been told
that night
if something inside were completely
stationary objects.

This is mesmerizing; nothing is here, that is not my own, but it does suffer a sea-change: "I have holes of love", "the onset of perniciousness from time on a piece of shit." are excerpts. My favorite (so far!):

Goliard hidden assets. Posted by taking
yourself doppelganger. except with my pencil
was impenetrable after all the dark night, exultant
in a constipated elephant. No, ! not perform my
listening to chuck it
Aleister Crowley who we all
eating. I always be employed at
its potential in here,
snorfle.

Found at language hat, who posts both the excerpt and the whole thing.

Now go away and try it for yourself. I gotta make more "poems"...

this and that

I took Will Duquette's advice, and purchased economy storage boxes. 6 boxes for $5. Hard to beat, and they are the right size for books. *Sigh* I am still not done packing books. However, at least I am not wasting any more time scrounging for boxes. Less than a dollar a box, for something I can easily reuse, is hard to beat.

This has been a pleasant weekend, all things considered. Aside from the fact that I must work Saturday (I did work Saturday - that part was not so pleasant), I played chamber music Friday night, and did not disgrace myself. I played without too much pain, a 16" viola (the biggest I have been able to manage since the wretched bicycle accident in 2001). I played all evening without having to stop early. I played violin as well and did not disgrace myself. I finished a watercolor that I have been working on in a pretty desultory fashion for the last couple of weeks. I started a new watercolor in a new style. As far as I am concerned, I have not disgraced myself at all this weekend!

I spent far too much money today, and purchased a very, very comfortable pair of shoes from The Walk Shop in Berkeley. My feet are thanking me already, although my bank account is not.

Speaking of bank accounts, I yielded to temptation last week (surprise, surprise!) and purchased from Powell's on-line bookstore a stack of Guy Gavriel Kay novels. I guess that means that A) I will have MORE ^!?*#$% books to move, and B) I will have some tasty reviews for Ex Libris next month. They ought to be here in a couple of days. It's not as if I haven't been reading - I have. It's just that most of my reading was a weird mish-mash of pieces from my parents library. I didn't really feel like reviewing them. A fun one I am nearly done with is Washington Irving's Sketchbook, a leisurely and delightful recounting of his sojourn in England. It is lightweight, beautifully written, and it made me sigh for the more leisurely life. He describes in a very matter-of-fact way, the common practice of tourists of his day; they record their travels with sketches, letters, and journals, with which they regale their friends with when they return. Sketches! I mentioned this to Jean (my art teacher), who commented that drawing was considered one of the elemental skills that every gently born person of that period was expected to learn, if not to master.

packing a punch

We have been living here in the Richmond house for over 10 years. I still remember the last move; it was ugly, and I don't recall more than about 2,000 volumes, including music. We have acquired a LOT more books and music since then.

I am packing boxes in my sleep. I cruise the streets looking for empty boxes that are not too bad. I pack boxes every night when I get home from work. I am living in box land. There is not enough room in the house in Berkeley to store all the packed boxes at this point, so I must just live with boxes piling up all over the house here in Richmond. Construction is proceding apace on the final floor in my parent's house in Berkeley. Ugly stuff got uncovered in the process (surprise, surprise!), so construction is taking a little longer than expected. Still, it still looks like we should be ensconced by the end of May.

Moving is not fun, especially when all parties concerned are working at the same time. I just try to be calm, not let delays get me down, and keep my sights on the library to be...

I swear on all that is wholly that next time (there is always another next time, alas) I will allocate sufficient funds to employ a moving company. The distended moving process bites.