Well...
Traditionally, scientific realism states confidently that the world, as described by science, is the real world. It can also be described with the help of two doctrines, the ontological and epistemological. Ontologically, being a branch of metaphysics dealing with the nature of being, or epistemologically, a theory of knowledge, especially with regard to its scope, methods, and validity. We often think of epistemological situations when investigating what distinguishes justified belief from opinion.
There are several arguments taking charge against scientific realism, of which include underdetermination and pessimistic meta-induction, or inductive reasoning applied to scientific theories. Underdetermination, which is also at times referred to as the indeterminacy of data to theory, occurs when more than one theory is compatible with the evidence, we can then say that the evidence underdetermines the theory. In other words, a theory, with the inclusion of said theory’s evidence, will be underdetermined if and only if there is a contending theory that is at the very least, somewhat uniform with the evidence of the original theory. Since the evidence accompanying the original theory is unable to show that it’s hypothesis is not idiosyncratically true, then there is no reason the believe the theory over one equally as permissible. Quinean underdetermination is slightly different and states that any theory can be reconciled with any recalcitrant evidence by making suitable adjustments in our other assumptions about nature (Curd & Cover, 328). The method employs four different positive relations simultaneously which are arguably unrelated. The theory must be logically compatible with the evidence, logically entail the evidence, explain the evidence, and be empirically supported by the evidence.
There exist four forms of underdetermination, strong, weak, deductive, and inductive. A theory is strongly underdetermined when it is impossible to develop evidence which could lead to an acceptance of both the alpha theory and its competitor. Weak underdetermination occurs when the amount of evidence at one’s immediate disposal fails to prove the theory in question, while evidence discovered sometime into the future has the possibility of doing so. Further differentiation includes deductive and inductive forms of underdetermination. Deductively, two theories will be underdetermined when procurable evidence fails to thoroughly assert the opposite of either theory. Inductively, while the theories in question are compatible with one another, there is no way to discern which of the two is of a more effective quality.
Pessimistic meta-induction, also called the argument from scientific revolutions, is another argument which also pursues to refute avenues of scientific realism in an epistemological fashion. Subversion of a theory is achieved through pointing out key past documented counterexamples in the same way a lawyer would reference a historical verdict in favor of their own client’s ruling. This leads us to believe that all present theories will inevitably conclude to be false, which in turn alludes to thinking that there are no reasons to accept scientific theoretical postulations, nor are current scientific theories true or almost true. Larry Laudan claims that in order to succeed, a scientific realist must accept two theses. One, if a theory, T, is approximately true, it will be empirically successful and two, the empirical success of a theory, T, provides justification for the approximate truth of T. However, he argues that an approximation of the truth is far to vague to determine the theory’s empirical successfulness. Laudan also provides several counterexamples that were once empirically effective but are now considered to be false, among these are optical aether, circular inertia, and of course the once fabled crystal ball. Certain theories are of course refutable, but others like the Standard Model are still perfectly viable and have been proven to be approximately true with astounding increases in accuracy over the past century.
Physicist Lisa Randall views meta-induction as obsolete. When asked if there was a prospect of another Einstein-style moment that upends our entire understanding of the universe she said “Yes, in the sense that we could find some big things that underlie what we currently see. When we upend things in physics these days, it’s not necessarily that the old things were wrong. It’s just that underlying it is a more complete theory. Quantum mechanics tells us that a ball is made up of atoms, but Newton’s laws still work just fine. You can predict that ball’s trajectory without knowing that the ball is made up of atoms.”
“It sounds kind of technical, but problems like why gravity is so weak point to something dramatic. It could be extradimensional space, it could be a change in the nature of what we think are the symmetries of space and time. We clearly are missing something big. That isn’t necessarily something to be proud of, but it tells us that there is something waiting out there” (Revkin, 158).
The common-sensical views portrayed by scientific realism definitely help justify our beliefs that our best scientific theories are true or approximately true. This nature makes maintaining a form of scientific realism reasonable. While the rationalization of science is based on accordance with reason and logic, anti-realist beliefs tend to stray from the obvious for reasons deemed juxtapositional. The best explanation, for example, for the fact that measuring Avogadro's number (a constant specifying the number of molecules in a mole of any given substance) using such diverse phenomena as Brownian motion, alpha decay, x-ray diffraction, electrolysis, and blackbody radiation gives the same result is that matter really is composed of the unobservable entities we call molecules (Zynda, 2). If this were false, it would be surprisingly coincidental to find that these examples all displayed similar behaviors similar to anything else composed of a molecular composure. Yet, when we filter out all distractions and arbitrary information, we see that most, if not all theories comply accordingly with related coincidences and are more likely than not, derived from these coincidences all together.
Sources and further readings,if you are still awake:
Curd, Martin., and J.A. Cover. Philosophy of Science. New York: W.W. Norton and Company Inc., 1998.
Ladyman, James. Understanding Philosophy of Science. New York: Routledge, 2003.
Laudan, Larry "A Confutation of Convergent Realism." Philosophy of Science 48.1 (1981): 19-49.
Revkin, Andrew. "Where We're Going." Rolling Stone 15 Nov. 2007: 158.
Zynda, Lyle. “Scientific Realism vs. Constructive Empiricism.” Princeton University. Princeton, NJ. 5 Apr. 1994.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
tang, snot, and a mud brick oven
Having amassed an educated guess of 10,000 or so meals (give or take) with my siblings throughout the duration of our respective lives, the most culturally shocking, or more genteelly put, culturally dilating of the myriad clambakes were explicitly those consumed abroad in northeastern Africa.
My virgin passport, became the beholder of a freshly licked Egyptian Visa stamp upon entry into the once ancient pharaonic sovereign state. My knowledge of Arabic had proven to be linguistically inadequate when immersed in “real life” situations following an inevitably meaningless conversation with an Egyptian National Railways conductor concerning the whereabouts of the 10:00 PM sleeper to Aswan. An elderly Brit divulged that the train was running 10 minutes late and would be there shortly, provided other locomotive interruptions were absent. I assessed the kung fu grip I had on the straps of my backpack was causing an early onset of rheumatoid arthritis within the joints of my 18 year old digits. Easing up on my belongings, I scrounged around for a few Egyptian pounds in what I preferred to call my waist belt security pouch carryall, oftentimes known as a fanny pack back in the U S of A.
Boasting a dismal 1 inch of rainfall that year, Cairo had already feverishly parched my throat, at 10 in the evening nonetheless. A vender holding his own on the platform had a variety of drinks that all looked suspiciously delicious, reminiscent of Japanese candy, however I stuck with what I knew. Unfortunately all I seemed to know was the all too familiar late 1950’s Kraft invention notably known as Tang which mysteriously disappeared from most American grocer and country market shelves sometime in the mid 90’s, I now knew the whereabouts of the elusive Tang. Biting the bullet, I purchased several packets of the old wives tale dishwasher detergent doppelgänging as a thirst quencher to mix with a larger container of water, the bottled variety, of which a liter or so remained.
After giving my transparent blue Nalgene bottle a vigorous shake to mix up the citrus powder infused H2O, I inspected its contents to find plenty of Tang particles hadn’t dissolved and were settling near the bottom like yeast in an aged cream stout or sediments in a poorly decanted pinot. After a few wafts my nose detected tannins of crap and notes of funk, sure enough my first sip tasted like someone had sprayed California Orange Air Freshener directly in my mouth. The Tang was decanted, needless to say, from my water bottle to another large container; Earth. My train had arrived by this time and was duly boarded by the platform of patrons awaiting its arrival. Aswan and Nubia were a mere 13 hours from Cairo by way of the southbound iron horse caravan filled with onlookers of the desert, some trying to catch a few winks, while others and myself attempt to fathom oceans of sand by light of the nearly full moon.
A few days after my arrival in Aswan, my sister Elizabeth, with whom I was staying, mentioned that we would be dining with a Nubian woman by the name of Zuba. One of many Nubian women my sister had been working with for the past several years, Zuba spoke not a word of English and had invited us to her home for afternoon conversation followed by an authentic Nubian meal in the evening prepared solely by Zuba herself. Elizabeth would surely be my translator having studied Arabic for nearly 8 years now, as well as the Nubian dialect for nearly half of those.
Zuba’s home resided outside of Aswan on the eastern shore of the Nile within one of the remaining Nubian providences. On the quick fairy boat trip across the river, I reminisced about my list of “things to do while I’m in Egypt” that I had drawn up a week before the adventure began. “Try as many different foods as possible” was near the top of the list, I didn’t have it with me to denote its precise enumeration, but it was definitely within the top 3, to my recollection. Elizabeth had dined with Zuba on several occasions and knew the menu wasn’t too verbose.
“And what is Zuba preparing for our grand exotic feast?”
“Molokhiyya, aish shamsi, and fool. Rice, I bet.”
“Molokawhat? Rice? Ok. Rice. Awesome.”
“Haha, Molokhiyya. It’s cut up molokhiyya leaves boiled in chicken stock with a sauce composed of lots of garlic and ground coriander fried in oil, added to the soup with some lemon juice. Tomatoes maybe. You’ll see.”
“Well, I’m starving. And molokjambolaya... er... you know... sounds excellent.”
Zuba’s home was expansive, made of sun dried bricks, and had many open air areas in the hallways connecting the different portions of the abode, accompanied by a larger roofless courtyard area in the center. The word primitive was frequently on my mind, but always followed by fantasies of moving in, or building my own mud bricked home on the banks of the Nile. I was thoroughly compelled to drop out of college right then and there to study my own self loathing for life as it was previously known to me. My brain smoothly switched to passive misanthropic mode as it began discarding a society filled with 52 inch plasma televisions, cell phones, laptops, and e-commerce to gladly accept the humble hospitality of Zuba and her family, whom offered me the warmest of welcomes with an amiability that knew no bounds.
Elizabeth and I sat on the floor of Zuba’s “dining room,” a smaller offshoot of the courtyard, with earth flooring and personal art and leather work hanging on two of the three walls. Dinner was just as my sister predicted. Molokhiyya, aish shamsi, fool -- which was mashed fava beans with garlic, cumin, and oil -- and rice. Aish shamsi’s literal translation was “sun bread.” Resembling 2 inch flat pita loaves, the aish shamsi is left to rise in the sun before baking in Zuba’s handmade mud brick oven. I tried some of the sun bread, first with no additions, and it was almost identical to a pita, although it was a bit more robust and fresh than something you would find at Whole Foods. I then ripped another hefty piece of shamsi from the loaf and went in for the kill, scooping a generous scoop of molokhiyya from the serving dish it was held up in. The excess slowly dripped from the torn bread with the consistency of snot from a bawling toddler’s nose. I could have used a sieve to separate the coarse molokhiyya leaves and garlic from the mucoid luggie broth they had been festering in. As my sister and Zuba got a kick out of the petrified look on my face, I decided to keep on keepin’ on and down the sucker. The slime nearly caused an abdominal evacuation, but I managed to keep it down. I deemed it was time to pursue a new avenue of nourishment. Sure, there was a McDonald’s in Luxor, but I didn’t cross the pond for a Big Mac.
My virgin passport, became the beholder of a freshly licked Egyptian Visa stamp upon entry into the once ancient pharaonic sovereign state. My knowledge of Arabic had proven to be linguistically inadequate when immersed in “real life” situations following an inevitably meaningless conversation with an Egyptian National Railways conductor concerning the whereabouts of the 10:00 PM sleeper to Aswan. An elderly Brit divulged that the train was running 10 minutes late and would be there shortly, provided other locomotive interruptions were absent. I assessed the kung fu grip I had on the straps of my backpack was causing an early onset of rheumatoid arthritis within the joints of my 18 year old digits. Easing up on my belongings, I scrounged around for a few Egyptian pounds in what I preferred to call my waist belt security pouch carryall, oftentimes known as a fanny pack back in the U S of A.
Boasting a dismal 1 inch of rainfall that year, Cairo had already feverishly parched my throat, at 10 in the evening nonetheless. A vender holding his own on the platform had a variety of drinks that all looked suspiciously delicious, reminiscent of Japanese candy, however I stuck with what I knew. Unfortunately all I seemed to know was the all too familiar late 1950’s Kraft invention notably known as Tang which mysteriously disappeared from most American grocer and country market shelves sometime in the mid 90’s, I now knew the whereabouts of the elusive Tang. Biting the bullet, I purchased several packets of the old wives tale dishwasher detergent doppelgänging as a thirst quencher to mix with a larger container of water, the bottled variety, of which a liter or so remained.
After giving my transparent blue Nalgene bottle a vigorous shake to mix up the citrus powder infused H2O, I inspected its contents to find plenty of Tang particles hadn’t dissolved and were settling near the bottom like yeast in an aged cream stout or sediments in a poorly decanted pinot. After a few wafts my nose detected tannins of crap and notes of funk, sure enough my first sip tasted like someone had sprayed California Orange Air Freshener directly in my mouth. The Tang was decanted, needless to say, from my water bottle to another large container; Earth. My train had arrived by this time and was duly boarded by the platform of patrons awaiting its arrival. Aswan and Nubia were a mere 13 hours from Cairo by way of the southbound iron horse caravan filled with onlookers of the desert, some trying to catch a few winks, while others and myself attempt to fathom oceans of sand by light of the nearly full moon.
A few days after my arrival in Aswan, my sister Elizabeth, with whom I was staying, mentioned that we would be dining with a Nubian woman by the name of Zuba. One of many Nubian women my sister had been working with for the past several years, Zuba spoke not a word of English and had invited us to her home for afternoon conversation followed by an authentic Nubian meal in the evening prepared solely by Zuba herself. Elizabeth would surely be my translator having studied Arabic for nearly 8 years now, as well as the Nubian dialect for nearly half of those.
Zuba’s home resided outside of Aswan on the eastern shore of the Nile within one of the remaining Nubian providences. On the quick fairy boat trip across the river, I reminisced about my list of “things to do while I’m in Egypt” that I had drawn up a week before the adventure began. “Try as many different foods as possible” was near the top of the list, I didn’t have it with me to denote its precise enumeration, but it was definitely within the top 3, to my recollection. Elizabeth had dined with Zuba on several occasions and knew the menu wasn’t too verbose.
“And what is Zuba preparing for our grand exotic feast?”
“Molokhiyya, aish shamsi, and fool. Rice, I bet.”
“Molokawhat? Rice? Ok. Rice. Awesome.”
“Haha, Molokhiyya. It’s cut up molokhiyya leaves boiled in chicken stock with a sauce composed of lots of garlic and ground coriander fried in oil, added to the soup with some lemon juice. Tomatoes maybe. You’ll see.”
“Well, I’m starving. And molokjambolaya... er... you know... sounds excellent.”
Zuba’s home was expansive, made of sun dried bricks, and had many open air areas in the hallways connecting the different portions of the abode, accompanied by a larger roofless courtyard area in the center. The word primitive was frequently on my mind, but always followed by fantasies of moving in, or building my own mud bricked home on the banks of the Nile. I was thoroughly compelled to drop out of college right then and there to study my own self loathing for life as it was previously known to me. My brain smoothly switched to passive misanthropic mode as it began discarding a society filled with 52 inch plasma televisions, cell phones, laptops, and e-commerce to gladly accept the humble hospitality of Zuba and her family, whom offered me the warmest of welcomes with an amiability that knew no bounds.
Elizabeth and I sat on the floor of Zuba’s “dining room,” a smaller offshoot of the courtyard, with earth flooring and personal art and leather work hanging on two of the three walls. Dinner was just as my sister predicted. Molokhiyya, aish shamsi, fool -- which was mashed fava beans with garlic, cumin, and oil -- and rice. Aish shamsi’s literal translation was “sun bread.” Resembling 2 inch flat pita loaves, the aish shamsi is left to rise in the sun before baking in Zuba’s handmade mud brick oven. I tried some of the sun bread, first with no additions, and it was almost identical to a pita, although it was a bit more robust and fresh than something you would find at Whole Foods. I then ripped another hefty piece of shamsi from the loaf and went in for the kill, scooping a generous scoop of molokhiyya from the serving dish it was held up in. The excess slowly dripped from the torn bread with the consistency of snot from a bawling toddler’s nose. I could have used a sieve to separate the coarse molokhiyya leaves and garlic from the mucoid luggie broth they had been festering in. As my sister and Zuba got a kick out of the petrified look on my face, I decided to keep on keepin’ on and down the sucker. The slime nearly caused an abdominal evacuation, but I managed to keep it down. I deemed it was time to pursue a new avenue of nourishment. Sure, there was a McDonald’s in Luxor, but I didn’t cross the pond for a Big Mac.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
primehouse
David Burke’s Primehouse
616 North Rush St at Ontario
Chicago, IL 60611
312.660.6000
Sharing a valet and common area lounge bar with the James Hotel, David Burke’s Primehouse rests one block west, just shy of Michigan Avenue within the James building.
Steak enthusiasts will probably learn a thing or two about the dry-aging techniques and processes employed by David Burke at this contemporary rendition of the classic Chicago steakhouse. Dinner at Burke’s posh eatery, candle lit in the evenings, will be long sought after following a peak at the menu. Also serving breakfast, lunch, and even a pinnacle brunch on Saturday’s and Sunday’s, the Primehouse is definitely capable of providing a well rounded feast. Thus, leaving well rounded is a possibility.
For starters, the lobster bisque should be ingested intravenously as the taste buds might not be able to comprehend its nutmeg enhanced extravagance or the soups pairing with a fried foot long lobster spring roll. A handmade classic tableside caesar salad is prepared with finesse by a porter whom whisks together an individually crafted caesar dressing. One may ponder the addition of anchovy paste, but no one certainly questions the label of a store bought variety. A crab cake, although cylindrical, is also available, deep fried in a pretzel crust, with grape tomato, cucumber, kumquats, a poppy seed honey, and a righteous mango-mayonnaise for dipping. Long John Silver’s is literally blown out of the water if the chilled shellfish maison, shellfish castle--salmon tartare and a chilled calamari salad are among the exotics--or east-meets-west oyster sextet are chosen as an early course aphrodisiac.
The pride and joy of Primehouse are most certainly its red meats coming from the offspring of the 2,500 pound Kentucky bull undeniably known as Prime 207L, or simply Prime, whom Burke purchased for a lofty sum of $250,000. Hope he’s got Farmers Insurance.
Reserve cuts are available, having been aged anywhere from 28 to 75 days within the onsite Himalayan dry-aging Salt Room. The “south side” filet, only aged for a week or so, is a hit, established beyond all doubt. The waiter gladly goes as far in depth as necessary to describe the dry-aging process being sure to cross the t’s and dot every lower case j for those interested. Other meats are offered, however, steak is how this place became a cash cow. Typical steak additions include oscar, diane, and the French staple, au poivre. Sides range anywhere from chorizo whipped potatoes, to a subtle vegetable of the day.
If there happens to be a birthday celebration in the party, expect a “slice of prime” chocolate cake accompanied by “happy birthday” scribed, in old english, on the chilled ovular plate in a rich chocolate glaze by a pastry chef utilizing his acute dexterity -- that of an ancient Chinese calligrapher. Wine enthusiasts may gawk at an expansive 17 page wine list that even Jesus wouldn’t know what to do with.
A perfect wedding proposal atmosphere, save 3 months pay for the ring, and then some, to dine at Burke’s. (Entrées $21-$79)
616 North Rush St at Ontario
Chicago, IL 60611
312.660.6000
Sharing a valet and common area lounge bar with the James Hotel, David Burke’s Primehouse rests one block west, just shy of Michigan Avenue within the James building.
Steak enthusiasts will probably learn a thing or two about the dry-aging techniques and processes employed by David Burke at this contemporary rendition of the classic Chicago steakhouse. Dinner at Burke’s posh eatery, candle lit in the evenings, will be long sought after following a peak at the menu. Also serving breakfast, lunch, and even a pinnacle brunch on Saturday’s and Sunday’s, the Primehouse is definitely capable of providing a well rounded feast. Thus, leaving well rounded is a possibility.
For starters, the lobster bisque should be ingested intravenously as the taste buds might not be able to comprehend its nutmeg enhanced extravagance or the soups pairing with a fried foot long lobster spring roll. A handmade classic tableside caesar salad is prepared with finesse by a porter whom whisks together an individually crafted caesar dressing. One may ponder the addition of anchovy paste, but no one certainly questions the label of a store bought variety. A crab cake, although cylindrical, is also available, deep fried in a pretzel crust, with grape tomato, cucumber, kumquats, a poppy seed honey, and a righteous mango-mayonnaise for dipping. Long John Silver’s is literally blown out of the water if the chilled shellfish maison, shellfish castle--salmon tartare and a chilled calamari salad are among the exotics--or east-meets-west oyster sextet are chosen as an early course aphrodisiac.
The pride and joy of Primehouse are most certainly its red meats coming from the offspring of the 2,500 pound Kentucky bull undeniably known as Prime 207L, or simply Prime, whom Burke purchased for a lofty sum of $250,000. Hope he’s got Farmers Insurance.
Reserve cuts are available, having been aged anywhere from 28 to 75 days within the onsite Himalayan dry-aging Salt Room. The “south side” filet, only aged for a week or so, is a hit, established beyond all doubt. The waiter gladly goes as far in depth as necessary to describe the dry-aging process being sure to cross the t’s and dot every lower case j for those interested. Other meats are offered, however, steak is how this place became a cash cow. Typical steak additions include oscar, diane, and the French staple, au poivre. Sides range anywhere from chorizo whipped potatoes, to a subtle vegetable of the day.
If there happens to be a birthday celebration in the party, expect a “slice of prime” chocolate cake accompanied by “happy birthday” scribed, in old english, on the chilled ovular plate in a rich chocolate glaze by a pastry chef utilizing his acute dexterity -- that of an ancient Chinese calligrapher. Wine enthusiasts may gawk at an expansive 17 page wine list that even Jesus wouldn’t know what to do with.
A perfect wedding proposal atmosphere, save 3 months pay for the ring, and then some, to dine at Burke’s. (Entrées $21-$79)
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
on untechnique
Go ahead and read this:
Bret Lott - Against Technique
Then this:
Bret Lott’s essay encourages me to withdraw from this course. Art vs. artifice is a realm I know all too well. I used to teach guitar lessons but I quit. I quit because I reached a threshold. A threshold where you cannot teach a pupil anything else, they just have to go it on their own and look to you for guidance every now and then. I live a very unorthodox life, believe unorthodox beliefs, have an unorthodox approach to guitar technique, and I am now coming to realize that my writing is that. Unorthodox. This is a good thing. In reading Lott’s essay, I felt my denominator shrinking, in real time, becoming increasingly common. I’d much rather aspire to be 1/1,000,000 than 1/1. Either way, both could possibly be viewed as identical.
Writing shouldn't require identifying such trite details (maybe it's not so trite, I'm no expert). But in that aspect, who is really? I'll tell you who is. The reader. Books and stories are a lot like wine; there are many good and bad, but it in the end, it only matters to the person consuming them how he or she chooses to feel about them. Author-itative brilliance is spawned from the mind, whether it be one of those “Eureka!” moments while going for a long distance run, or underestimating your child’s potentialities of good will. The fact is “Eureka!” can’t be taught. There are an infinite number of permutations and combinations of words that one can use to describe how to author good nonfiction. In the end, however, you only need be concerned with how and why you have arrived at the close of an essay, short story, novel, or other what-have-you’s.
I know nothing and I am only trying to walk into the room. Knowing that knowledge is innately attained everyday and knowing there is not a finite amount of knowledge to be attained is a feeling most humble. Fiction and nonfiction techniques coincide exactly when superimposed, but there is no one way to teach one the superimposition of such techniques. There is no end all be all theory of creative writing, fictive or not. For being Against Technique, Lott surely attempts to impose his “technique” on the reader/writer in question looking for an answer, while in the end he tells you to engage your one and only path to the waterfall. There is no correct nor incorrect way of being an author. It is an art form. Like wine. I savor my 2nd glass of Mark West ‘05 Pinot Noir as I write this and think, “Damn. That’s good art.”
Bret Lott - Against Technique
Then this:
Bret Lott’s essay encourages me to withdraw from this course. Art vs. artifice is a realm I know all too well. I used to teach guitar lessons but I quit. I quit because I reached a threshold. A threshold where you cannot teach a pupil anything else, they just have to go it on their own and look to you for guidance every now and then. I live a very unorthodox life, believe unorthodox beliefs, have an unorthodox approach to guitar technique, and I am now coming to realize that my writing is that. Unorthodox. This is a good thing. In reading Lott’s essay, I felt my denominator shrinking, in real time, becoming increasingly common. I’d much rather aspire to be 1/1,000,000 than 1/1. Either way, both could possibly be viewed as identical.
Writing shouldn't require identifying such trite details (maybe it's not so trite, I'm no expert). But in that aspect, who is really? I'll tell you who is. The reader. Books and stories are a lot like wine; there are many good and bad, but it in the end, it only matters to the person consuming them how he or she chooses to feel about them. Author-itative brilliance is spawned from the mind, whether it be one of those “Eureka!” moments while going for a long distance run, or underestimating your child’s potentialities of good will. The fact is “Eureka!” can’t be taught. There are an infinite number of permutations and combinations of words that one can use to describe how to author good nonfiction. In the end, however, you only need be concerned with how and why you have arrived at the close of an essay, short story, novel, or other what-have-you’s.
I know nothing and I am only trying to walk into the room. Knowing that knowledge is innately attained everyday and knowing there is not a finite amount of knowledge to be attained is a feeling most humble. Fiction and nonfiction techniques coincide exactly when superimposed, but there is no one way to teach one the superimposition of such techniques. There is no end all be all theory of creative writing, fictive or not. For being Against Technique, Lott surely attempts to impose his “technique” on the reader/writer in question looking for an answer, while in the end he tells you to engage your one and only path to the waterfall. There is no correct nor incorrect way of being an author. It is an art form. Like wine. I savor my 2nd glass of Mark West ‘05 Pinot Noir as I write this and think, “Damn. That’s good art.”
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
if by way of
A calm though heightened sense of plain regard for observation swells through my veins as the thrust of four turbines, wailing, lifts four hundred and thirty some odd tons of flesh, fuel, blood, and steel, from the tempered pavement, black. Robert’s voice soothes my ears and tells me that’s the way it ought to be, and that’s the way it ought to stay, while his mate, James, rhythmically striking perfectly placed chords, invokes sheer joy, unattainable. Flight ensues, the first law of thermodynamics carries the conglomerate in upwards of eight miles above the Atlantic and begins to trace an incredible arc length towards a province to which I am unaccustomed. An idiosyncratic experience has been laid in motion, inaugurated. Whenever this feeling takes over I regret not having a tape recorder, pen and pad, film, or a lengthy short term memory to encapsulate said moment for archaic recollection. If I had, could such a recollection be retrieved without ease? Or would my neurons fire and bestow a more industrial bond upon one another strengthening their ability to recall.
When met with a protasis, one more often than not immediately delivers a conclusion. I on the other hand pine over a myriad of other conclusions that I felt would have better suited the situation. If I would have said this, if I would have done that, et cetera. If I could ascertain a notion of deep transcendental thought, would I be able to go back and flip through each outcome of each fantasized denouement? Highly unlikely since we as human beings have only been able to unlock and utilize (actively) a measly 10% (myth) of our brain power. Whereas in an ideal environment causes and effects would be interchangeably equivalent so that one could guide and shape their reality as they see fit. Perfection could be engaged without thought and being enlightened would be as passive as breathing in your sleep. Being in a spell of alertness at all times could lead you to a surface that you are not yet predisposed to reconvene with. The question I repeatedly ask myself is what if I could change my past, or future, or both (which would occur regardless; a redundancy). Would I be who or what I am? All things being equal, no.
Armed guards line the terminal toting Kalashnikov automatic rifles originally modeled in 1947, safeties on, trigger fingers contently holstered and fixed to their respective palms. Stepping from the fuselage of the tamed Boeing, my feet pace towards something new, abandoning all they previously found familiar. Words and phrases run amok in and out of my ears as they attempt to decipher the language, native to where I stand. With my baggage claimed and my passport stamped, I proceed towards a menacing customs official awaiting to perform his duties of poking and prodding through my belongings. I wonder, carefree, if he’ll find something unsanctioned during the semi-meticulous inspection. Little did he know that I had previously been dosed several times with endogenous morphine, a natural analgesic I preferred over the inoculation of foreign subject matter. There was nothing to find capable of barring me from entry to his homeland. Nothing but unabated smiles, and wide eyes, yearning for something new. Something in addition to another or others already existing. I feel my soul will be harvested early this season.
In addition to another memory, I find as if I have reinvented others, or maybe how I remember them has changed and evolved since last they were called upon for remembrance. If a child can drown in one inch of shallow water, then I am ungrudgingly suffocating in my own cognition. I can’t stress enough that life’s middle name is if. If I discontinue the applications learned by way of seminars and tutorials from new memories, I may as well just forget that I exist all together. Upon further inspection of my own developments in Western Thought, I can conclude that my views have gone askew to those of the norm, or those that the norm has to offer. If you can learn to take your time, slow down, and condense each second to a small vibration, there is much more to be seen and heard than you have given yourself credit for. Careening through the rotations prevents free thought. You need to play out your favorite scene and fine tune your mind as if it were machinery. I can limit my senses all I want, but need to take a symptomatic approach and be supportive. The test is to see if I can read, but alexia doesn’t mean I can’t read me.
My driver holds a sign with the only American name in plain view. A man befriended by my eldest sib, spoke not a word of English yet I knew we could peruse the same page. I read the words “duty free” right from his eyes as we strolled to the decrepit warehouse-esque international emporium of pilsner and spirits. The particular pilsner in question was Dutch born and treated like liquified precious metals amongst my driver and his benefactors. Patrons of the emporium were required to present their boarding pass, be the proprietor of a passport, and follow the rules and regulations of said proprietary passport’s country of origin. Unbeknownst to my driver, the latter of the three requirements would be unfulfilled. Following a short jaunt to the train station from the unsuccessful pils score, I’m escorted to my vestibule to catch a convoy of sleeper and coach cars en route through more palm and sand than I ever knew existed to a destination in the middle of what I knew to be nowhere. If it was nowhere when I arrived, it was unequivocally somewhere when I left.
When met with a protasis, one more often than not immediately delivers a conclusion. I on the other hand pine over a myriad of other conclusions that I felt would have better suited the situation. If I would have said this, if I would have done that, et cetera. If I could ascertain a notion of deep transcendental thought, would I be able to go back and flip through each outcome of each fantasized denouement? Highly unlikely since we as human beings have only been able to unlock and utilize (actively) a measly 10% (myth) of our brain power. Whereas in an ideal environment causes and effects would be interchangeably equivalent so that one could guide and shape their reality as they see fit. Perfection could be engaged without thought and being enlightened would be as passive as breathing in your sleep. Being in a spell of alertness at all times could lead you to a surface that you are not yet predisposed to reconvene with. The question I repeatedly ask myself is what if I could change my past, or future, or both (which would occur regardless; a redundancy). Would I be who or what I am? All things being equal, no.
Armed guards line the terminal toting Kalashnikov automatic rifles originally modeled in 1947, safeties on, trigger fingers contently holstered and fixed to their respective palms. Stepping from the fuselage of the tamed Boeing, my feet pace towards something new, abandoning all they previously found familiar. Words and phrases run amok in and out of my ears as they attempt to decipher the language, native to where I stand. With my baggage claimed and my passport stamped, I proceed towards a menacing customs official awaiting to perform his duties of poking and prodding through my belongings. I wonder, carefree, if he’ll find something unsanctioned during the semi-meticulous inspection. Little did he know that I had previously been dosed several times with endogenous morphine, a natural analgesic I preferred over the inoculation of foreign subject matter. There was nothing to find capable of barring me from entry to his homeland. Nothing but unabated smiles, and wide eyes, yearning for something new. Something in addition to another or others already existing. I feel my soul will be harvested early this season.
In addition to another memory, I find as if I have reinvented others, or maybe how I remember them has changed and evolved since last they were called upon for remembrance. If a child can drown in one inch of shallow water, then I am ungrudgingly suffocating in my own cognition. I can’t stress enough that life’s middle name is if. If I discontinue the applications learned by way of seminars and tutorials from new memories, I may as well just forget that I exist all together. Upon further inspection of my own developments in Western Thought, I can conclude that my views have gone askew to those of the norm, or those that the norm has to offer. If you can learn to take your time, slow down, and condense each second to a small vibration, there is much more to be seen and heard than you have given yourself credit for. Careening through the rotations prevents free thought. You need to play out your favorite scene and fine tune your mind as if it were machinery. I can limit my senses all I want, but need to take a symptomatic approach and be supportive. The test is to see if I can read, but alexia doesn’t mean I can’t read me.
My driver holds a sign with the only American name in plain view. A man befriended by my eldest sib, spoke not a word of English yet I knew we could peruse the same page. I read the words “duty free” right from his eyes as we strolled to the decrepit warehouse-esque international emporium of pilsner and spirits. The particular pilsner in question was Dutch born and treated like liquified precious metals amongst my driver and his benefactors. Patrons of the emporium were required to present their boarding pass, be the proprietor of a passport, and follow the rules and regulations of said proprietary passport’s country of origin. Unbeknownst to my driver, the latter of the three requirements would be unfulfilled. Following a short jaunt to the train station from the unsuccessful pils score, I’m escorted to my vestibule to catch a convoy of sleeper and coach cars en route through more palm and sand than I ever knew existed to a destination in the middle of what I knew to be nowhere. If it was nowhere when I arrived, it was unequivocally somewhere when I left.
a royal flush beats four aces
I’m sitting backstage, alone, waiting for someone to call me on stage. A once lonely tub of water and ice recently made friends with two dozen or so Heineken. I remove one from the tub teetering just below room temperature, pop it open with a Bic lighter to enjoy while I wait patiently for the others to cool to a more desirable temp. Enter Paul Bolger.
Paul takes a pack of playing cards out of his front jean pocket and asks me if I’d like to play a game of poker. I cordially agree to the game of distinguished gentlemen. We then concur on a verbal agreement that the winner of the hand, five card draw, takes a lofty prize of ten dollars. Noting that Paul failed to shuffle the deck at all, I deduced there was mutiny afoot. Surely my four aces fell to his astonishing royal flush, a hand that bolsters the odds in five cards of 1 in 649,740. Roughly 156 times that of the odds of my four of a kind. I enticed Paul to quickly fess up to the crime, knowing that I was a man of my word and would have paid him had the game not been rigged in his favor. Enter one half of Paul Bolger’s rhythm section.
“Alan. Poker? Ten bucks?” Paul asks with a concealed grin aimed at his last unsuspecting victim. “I’ve never played poker before, but sure, ten bucks,” groans the assumed Slovak born beat keeper with a tone of Eastern Europe buried beneath his now Chicagoan influenced accent. Paul’s face lights up as his prey unknowingly lies defenseless in the eyes of an amateur pocket casino peddling predator. “Oh, it’s easy. I’ll deal the cards out and show you the ropes. We each get 5 cards to start.” The mastermind quickly flutters out 5 cards to each player, alternating one at a time. “Now the goal of the game is to match face values, suits, a combination of the two, et cetera... There are actually a lot of different hands you can win with, but we’ll get into that a bit later.” Alan glances over his cards and knowing that four aces has to be something good, chooses not to return any cards and keep his hand as it was dealt. “Hope you have that ten bucks handy, Paul.” A look of modern falsified anxiety from Paul surely assures Alan that the game is his. The forced odds of nearly three quarters of a million to one were about to be thrown in Alan’s face. “Holy shit! I got a royal flush!” The excitement in the room was so hollow and phony we could have all been off-broadway. “A royal flush? Does that beat four aces?” Alan stutters. “It most certainly does!” Paul contends. Alan's ten dollars was certainly ascertained by shady means and he began to realize it. “Royal flush? Who the fuck gets a royal flush? You fuck cheat me out of ten dollar!” His ill mannered temper, broken english, and native accent were in full effect following a discovery of the leisurely coup d’état. “Relax! It was a joke. I had no intention of keeping the money,” Paul explained, “What should we open our first set with?” Alan coming back to reality, socks Paul in the shoulder in retaliation for his shenanigans and calmly suggests an extended fourteen minute or more version of their love child, one of many, “Over and Back.”
Paul takes a pack of playing cards out of his front jean pocket and asks me if I’d like to play a game of poker. I cordially agree to the game of distinguished gentlemen. We then concur on a verbal agreement that the winner of the hand, five card draw, takes a lofty prize of ten dollars. Noting that Paul failed to shuffle the deck at all, I deduced there was mutiny afoot. Surely my four aces fell to his astonishing royal flush, a hand that bolsters the odds in five cards of 1 in 649,740. Roughly 156 times that of the odds of my four of a kind. I enticed Paul to quickly fess up to the crime, knowing that I was a man of my word and would have paid him had the game not been rigged in his favor. Enter one half of Paul Bolger’s rhythm section.
“Alan. Poker? Ten bucks?” Paul asks with a concealed grin aimed at his last unsuspecting victim. “I’ve never played poker before, but sure, ten bucks,” groans the assumed Slovak born beat keeper with a tone of Eastern Europe buried beneath his now Chicagoan influenced accent. Paul’s face lights up as his prey unknowingly lies defenseless in the eyes of an amateur pocket casino peddling predator. “Oh, it’s easy. I’ll deal the cards out and show you the ropes. We each get 5 cards to start.” The mastermind quickly flutters out 5 cards to each player, alternating one at a time. “Now the goal of the game is to match face values, suits, a combination of the two, et cetera... There are actually a lot of different hands you can win with, but we’ll get into that a bit later.” Alan glances over his cards and knowing that four aces has to be something good, chooses not to return any cards and keep his hand as it was dealt. “Hope you have that ten bucks handy, Paul.” A look of modern falsified anxiety from Paul surely assures Alan that the game is his. The forced odds of nearly three quarters of a million to one were about to be thrown in Alan’s face. “Holy shit! I got a royal flush!” The excitement in the room was so hollow and phony we could have all been off-broadway. “A royal flush? Does that beat four aces?” Alan stutters. “It most certainly does!” Paul contends. Alan's ten dollars was certainly ascertained by shady means and he began to realize it. “Royal flush? Who the fuck gets a royal flush? You fuck cheat me out of ten dollar!” His ill mannered temper, broken english, and native accent were in full effect following a discovery of the leisurely coup d’état. “Relax! It was a joke. I had no intention of keeping the money,” Paul explained, “What should we open our first set with?” Alan coming back to reality, socks Paul in the shoulder in retaliation for his shenanigans and calmly suggests an extended fourteen minute or more version of their love child, one of many, “Over and Back.”
one fifth, blotto
Vivid. The word that came to mind when I asked my partner in crime what he thought of the guitarist and band as a whole that I introduced him to last Saturday. Blending a mind boggling assortment of styles and genres, Mark Hague began to shed a whole new light upon mine and my concert going accomplices’ guitar playing ideologies. Unorthodox keys and phrasing are somehow able to mesh with one another and create something orgasmic to the ear. The A to Z list of influence drapes obviously over the fret board of Hague’s Paul Reed Smith Twentyfour Custom like that of an oversized doily brandishing several cigarette burns, one looking like it almost got out of control, that your grandmother probably used to shroud her night stand. His fingers grace the strings effortlessly, but with sheer determination to arrive at their appropriate destination along the neck, all the while working together forming a pleasing or consistent whole, harmoniously.
Pitch and intonation are two, among many, of the qualities that boast all the required or desirable elements of perfection. His five o’clock shadow from last week proves his dedication to the holy matrimony between man and his workhorse, and the obligation to bestow the ever ringing sound of waves and vibrations penetrating its listeners ear drums bellowing from the quad of magnets, each twelve inch in diameter. Our ears bleed tears of jubilation as a plethora of peace and well wishes travel through them at the speed of sound. I think that I should practice more, that I should leave the concert at once to return home and exhaust my chops and provoke blood to flow from my finger tips on my fretting hand. In due time, my time is due.
I busily abolish the thought of leaving at such an inopportune time and bring my focus back to the most important gem of the evening. Every beer I try to put down becomes warm towards the last couple ounces because my mind is attentively affixed to the stage. Hague nods a few bars ere ending an ego threatening solo to allow the rest of the band ample time to prepare to execute the outré outro with haste, an execution that surely invokes tears to glaze over my eyes as if I were about to win the aural lottery with a Power Ball jackpot consisting of all the ecstasy contained within the witness of a first born child’s birth. A simple mess of chords, strings, amps, and other musical wares of indeterminate kind bind together and achieve their goal of the evening. Making people happy.
Pitch and intonation are two, among many, of the qualities that boast all the required or desirable elements of perfection. His five o’clock shadow from last week proves his dedication to the holy matrimony between man and his workhorse, and the obligation to bestow the ever ringing sound of waves and vibrations penetrating its listeners ear drums bellowing from the quad of magnets, each twelve inch in diameter. Our ears bleed tears of jubilation as a plethora of peace and well wishes travel through them at the speed of sound. I think that I should practice more, that I should leave the concert at once to return home and exhaust my chops and provoke blood to flow from my finger tips on my fretting hand. In due time, my time is due.
I busily abolish the thought of leaving at such an inopportune time and bring my focus back to the most important gem of the evening. Every beer I try to put down becomes warm towards the last couple ounces because my mind is attentively affixed to the stage. Hague nods a few bars ere ending an ego threatening solo to allow the rest of the band ample time to prepare to execute the outré outro with haste, an execution that surely invokes tears to glaze over my eyes as if I were about to win the aural lottery with a Power Ball jackpot consisting of all the ecstasy contained within the witness of a first born child’s birth. A simple mess of chords, strings, amps, and other musical wares of indeterminate kind bind together and achieve their goal of the evening. Making people happy.
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