from xkcd.com

Talent can be described as “that which we have,” and Genius as “that which has us.”

-Harold Speed

It may be merely another brand statement (and of course it is ironic in that regard), but I can relate:

Because there is complexity in purity.
Elegance in plainness.
Intricacy in streamlining.
Richness in reduction.
Depth in minimalism.
Surprise in uniformity.
Innovation in re-use.
Cool in the avoidance of cool.
And there is true sophistication in simplicity.

Muji from Japan

Butterfly is reading the original Pinocchio to enhance her Italian language skills. I haven’t thought about that story in quite some time, but once reminded I began to wonder/reflect on the metaphysical implications of the story regarding the origins of consciousness. (Of course I am not implying anything in particular regarding the author’s original intent on this topic.)

And because I live in this wondrous modern world where people can communicate their wacky ideas to one another via a series of interconnected tubes, I was able to find an abundance of material relating specifically to my query. (The abundance of material both shed light and gave me the vague comfort that I am but one of many mind freaks.) Thus, I found the following curious site:

Curiously, with the influence of the physical sciences upon our ideas, and the strength of materialist philosophy, we can be left in a similar position - we can believe that the world, including the people in it, is composed of nothing but matter, and we are then left with the problem of explaining how matter can become conscious. In particular we are left with what I will call the ‘Pinocchio Problem’, which is the problem of providing an explanation of how the matter in our bodies or our nervous systems can possibly give rise to sentience - the inner, ‘first person’ experience of sensory data such as noises and smells and visual images, pleasure and pain.

The entire article/essay is lengthy but thought-provoking

My coworker is excited because Sue Miller has forecast 2008 as THE BEST year so far, in her whole life! I’m very happy for her, but…

I don’t have the heart to tell her that the last time Sue said such things I was erroneously evicted, Sparkler was excommunicated, Saltina’s life was thrust into the very belly of chaos and I’m sure some small African nation was struck with a 40-year’s plague.

I’m gonna try not to sit too close to her next year.

Note: some names and events have been changed or exaggerated to protect the entertainment value.

The Book I’m thinking about would not be religious in the usual sense, but it would have to discuss many things with which religions have been concerned–the universe and man’s place in it, the mysterious center of experience which we call “I myself,” the problems of life and love, pain and death, and the whole question of whether existence has meaning in any sense of the word. For there is a growing apprehension that existence is a rat-race in a trap: living organisms, including people, are merely tubes which put things in at one end and let them out at the other, which both keeps them doing it and in the long run wears them out. So to keep the farce going, the tubes find ways of making new tubes, which also put things in at one end and let them out at the other. At the input end they even develop ganglia of nerves called brains, with eyes and ears, so that they can more easily scrounge around for things to swallow As and when they get enough to eat, they use up their surplus energy by wiggling in complicated patterns, making all sorts of noises by blowing air in and out of the input hole, and gathering together in groups to fight with other groups. In time, the tubes grow such an abundance of attached appliances that they are hardly recognizable as mere tubes, and they manage to do this in a staggering variety of forms. There is a vague rule not to eat tubes of your own form, but in general there is serious competition as to who is going to be the top type of tube. All this seems marvelously futile, and yet, when you begin to think about it, it begins to be more marvelous than futile. Indeed, it seems extremely odd.

Alan Watts
The Book: On the Taboo Against Knowing Who You Are

Apparently I am doing the EveryOtherHoliDailies this year and that is just fine by me:

Lately I feel that I am less inclined to really “communicate” in my blog because I am in a season of planting, rather than reaping…creatively. Throughout my life I have experienced fairly prolific times, and good/bad or indifferent, I can hardly contain the flow of words that emerge. Then it seems there comes a fallow time, where I neither write nor really consume much (other than the daily news upkeep). Then begins the curiosity again, when I seek and gather a wide variety of thoughts and ideas to digest, before the spew of words begins anew. I know… I know…very cliché cyclical…and nonetheless a fitting description of the turns that seem to be my life.

That said, I haven’t felt “good” about just deluging my virtual pages with vast chronicles of quotes and words by others. (Of course the occasional quote post is fine.)

But lately, spending more time on thoughts and words from outside sources leaves me with little of my own to divulge.

So to blog or not to blog…that has been the question. And the short term answer is to lift the self-imposed restriction on quotes and just freely share the ideas that most amuse, befuddle, inspire and delight me. Of course they offer as much insight into my psyche as a personal entry and perhaps they offer even more.

Because the holidays are upon us and because the holidays often bring to mind old times with my family, I offer this poem from Robert Service. He was an extended family favorite and I recall times when my aunts and uncles would regale us with memorized stanzas from “The Cremation of Sam McGee” or “The Shooting of Dan McGrew”, orated from the first landing of the stairs to anyone in the living room willing to listen. (I’m quite sure that sounds nerdy and very circa 1874, but they are my memories so they are somehow wonderful to me.)

This is a favorite of mine from “The Collected Poems of Robert Service”

The Sceptic

My Father Christmas passed away
When I was barely seven.
At twenty-one, alack-a-day,
I lost my hope of heaven.

Yet not in either lies the curse:
The hell of it’s because
I don’t know which loss hurt the worse –
My God or Santa Claus.

Spent the day out in the yard gathering and bagging some of the leaves. Living in a yard with…um like….10 trees means, uh…something like 3,495,289,254 leaves, or 15 bags today. Interesting how I once despised this sort of task, and yet now I get such a wonderful enjoyment from the event. The weather couldn’t have been more perfect. Even better was the engaging and thoughtful conversation that Butterfly and I shared throughout.

Apparently my company is gearing up for some budget cuts. Nothing has been announced but my astute observations lead me to conclude that big changes are indeed afoot. See, at our company holiday party this year they had a dance contest and …karaoke.

I watched in (mock) horror as my coworkers swiveled and swayed to such golden oldies, as “I like Big Butts” and “You Can’t Touch This”. Of course, this is Texas so there were several of the mandatory “electric slide” line dances and the like.

However the pièce de résistance was the karaoke. With rapt amazement I listened to an attempt at the karaoke holy grail - - “Little Red Corvette” as well as an off-key tribute to eminem (performed by a trio of ladies).

Finally, it occurred to me that perhaps it is was all part an elaborate RIF tactic.

God I hope it works.