An underlying theme of these Confessions from the beginning—
Even before this experimental “portfolio website” began to spontaneously morph itself into—
1. A digitally-based, live-on-line “Rubik’s Cube” funhouse of mirrors?
Rubik's Cube, Toy of the year 1980–Ideal Toy Corp., made in Hungary
Rubik's Cube, Toy of the year 1980–Ideal Toy Corp., made in Hungary
In the mid-1970s, Ernő Rubik worked at the Department of Interior Design at the Academy of Applied Arts and Crafts in Budapest.[14] Although it is widely reported that the Cube was built as a teaching tool to help his students understand 3D objects, his actual purpose was solving the structural problem of moving the parts independently without the entire mechanism falling apart. He did not realize that he had created a puzzle until the first time he scrambled his new Cube and then tried to restore it.[15] Rubik obtained Hungarian patent HU170062 for his "Magic Cube" in 1975. Rubik's Cube was first called the Magic Cube (Bűvös kocka) in Hungary.
2. A verbal-visual (left brain/right brain) marathon slog… “long march”
Well, that’s the way it’s presented in our propaganda. We needed that to express the fighting spirit of our forces. In fact, it was a very easy military operation. There wasn’t really much to it. The other side were just some troops of the warlord who were armed with old muskets and it really wasn’t that much of a feat, but we felt we had to dramatize it.
Deng Xiaoping (allegedly)
Deng Xiaoping (allegedly)
or rather—modern blog—with no end in sight?
3. Into a curious confessional closet… or, a—
ARCHIVES | 1989
18th-Century Desk Sold For Record $12.1 Million
18th-Century Desk Sold For Record $12.1 Million
a bonnet-topped mahogany secretary, robustly carved with a block-and-shell front, which was probably made by John Goddard, a master Rhode Island cabinetmaker of the pre-Revolutionary period. It is the tallest, at 113 inches, of the nine six-shell Newport secretaries known to survive, most of which are in museums. (exactly like the one I dusted and oiled for Mrs. Thomas Hazard of RI!!)
an updated, contemporaneous cyber-secretary, then—with many obscure, private slots… hidden plots
4. Or a kind of updated (<<2017>>) Medici Slot Machine, 1942?
Joseph Cornell (1903-1972), American Contemporary artist was influenced by Sofonisba Anguissola’s Portrait of Merchese Massimiliano Stampa (1557) for this work.
We know that because in his dossier box on The Medici Slot Machine (1942, box construction, 15 ½” x 12 ¼” x 4 3/8”), Cornell had copies of Anguissola’s Medici portrait and copies of other paintings of hers too.
Cornell created unique worlds in boxes he made himself (after a neighbor taught him some carpentry). Each box displayed his interests and his attitudes toward his subjects, such as Lauren Bacall, owls, the penny arcade, or this Medici youth.
We know that because in his dossier box on The Medici Slot Machine (1942, box construction, 15 ½” x 12 ¼” x 4 3/8”), Cornell had copies of Anguissola’s Medici portrait and copies of other paintings of hers too.
Cornell created unique worlds in boxes he made himself (after a neighbor taught him some carpentry). Each box displayed his interests and his attitudes toward his subjects, such as Lauren Bacall, owls, the penny arcade, or this Medici youth.
We view this miniature world as though thru a telescope lens – juxtaposing near and far distances. The spiral placed at the boy’s feet evokes the spiral form found in the natural world – snails, roses, and DNA chromosomes. The spiral is also a metaphor for time and an allusion to life repeating itself in the cycle of the seasons. Spirals can also be found in the works of artists da Vinci and Duchamp. The space around the figure is fragmented into small segments that appear to be separate and yet together like in a kaleidoscope (a child’s toy). But the black lines crisscross the surface to tie the various spaces together. The “slot machine” title captures the game theme Cornell
5. Also see: Proteus, The Old Man of the Sea
Mythology[edit]
According to Homer (Odyssey iv:412), the sandy island of Pharos situated off the coast of the Nile Delta was the home of Proteus, the oracular Old Man of the Sea and herdsman of the sea-beasts. In the Odyssey, Menelaus relates to Telemachus that he had been becalmed here on his journey home from the Trojan War. He learned from Proteus' daughter Eidothea ("the very image of the Goddess"), that if he could capture her father, he could force him to reveal which of the gods he had offended and how he could propitiate them and return home. Proteus emerged from the sea to sleep among his colony of seals, but Menelaus was successful in holding him, though Proteus took the forms of a lion, a serpent, a leopard, a pig, even of water or a tree. Proteus then answered truthfully, further informing Menelaus that his brother Agamemnon had been murdered on his return home, that Ajax the Lesser had been shipwrecked and killed, and that Odysseus was stranded on Calypso's Isle Ogygia.
According to Virgil in the fourth Georgic, at one time the bees of Aristaeus, son of Apollo, all died of a disease. Aristaeus went to his mother, Cyrene, for help; she told him that Proteus could tell him how to prevent another such disaster, but would do so only if compelled. Aristaeus had to seize Proteus and hold him, no matter what he would change into. Aristaeus did so, and Proteus eventually gave up and told him that the bees' death was a punishment for causing the death of Eurydice. To make amends, Aristaeus needed to sacrifice 12 animals to the gods, leave the carcasses in the place of sacrifice, and return three days later. He followed these instructions, and upon returning, he found in one of the carcasses a swarm
According to Homer (Odyssey iv:412), the sandy island of Pharos situated off the coast of the Nile Delta was the home of Proteus, the oracular Old Man of the Sea and herdsman of the sea-beasts. In the Odyssey, Menelaus relates to Telemachus that he had been becalmed here on his journey home from the Trojan War. He learned from Proteus' daughter Eidothea ("the very image of the Goddess"), that if he could capture her father, he could force him to reveal which of the gods he had offended and how he could propitiate them and return home. Proteus emerged from the sea to sleep among his colony of seals, but Menelaus was successful in holding him, though Proteus took the forms of a lion, a serpent, a leopard, a pig, even of water or a tree. Proteus then answered truthfully, further informing Menelaus that his brother Agamemnon had been murdered on his return home, that Ajax the Lesser had been shipwrecked and killed, and that Odysseus was stranded on Calypso's Isle Ogygia.
According to Virgil in the fourth Georgic, at one time the bees of Aristaeus, son of Apollo, all died of a disease. Aristaeus went to his mother, Cyrene, for help; she told him that Proteus could tell him how to prevent another such disaster, but would do so only if compelled. Aristaeus had to seize Proteus and hold him, no matter what he would change into. Aristaeus did so, and Proteus eventually gave up and told him that the bees' death was a punishment for causing the death of Eurydice. To make amends, Aristaeus needed to sacrifice 12 animals to the gods, leave the carcasses in the place of sacrifice, and return three days later. He followed these instructions, and upon returning, he found in one of the carcasses a swarm
of bees which he took to his apiary. The bees were never again troubled by disease.
In modern times, the Swiss psychologist Carl Jung defined the mythological figure of Proteus as a personification of the unconscious, who, because of his gift of prophecy and shape-changing, has much in common with the central but elusive figure of alchemy, Mercurius.
In modern times, the Swiss psychologist Carl Jung defined the mythological figure of Proteus as a personification of the unconscious, who, because of his gift of prophecy and shape-changing, has much in common with the central but elusive figure of alchemy, Mercurius.
Otherwise known as, Hermes Trismegistus!
Excuse me. There are too many voices in this damn… “time and relative dimensions in space”… Dr. Who… closet! Settle down or I’ll open the door and flush you all out into deep space and eternity.
Oh no! Please, no! No, no, no…..
There…. better.
I do so love silence when I am trying to think. Now—
Where were we?
“There are many mansions in my father’s house…”
No one answer.
No one say a word.
Just allow me a sip of
Solicitous solitude this morning so
That I may enjoy my first balmy cup of
Swell Dragonwell tea
And
Organize my agitated carrier pigeons
A one… and a two… and a—
One-two-three
No one say a word.
Just allow me a sip of
Solicitous solitude this morning so
That I may enjoy my first balmy cup of
Swell Dragonwell tea
And
Organize my agitated carrier pigeons
A one… and a two… and a—
One-two-three
A driving force of my life’s porpoise, then, even as it appears in el Trabajo section…. long prior to these Chinese Puzzle Box Confessions
Has been the seminal vehicle, or, seed intention—to explore the real truth of nature itself.
To observe self, other, the world… to study, analyze, and philosophize… as Master Socrates urged… to—
To create insoluble mysteries, then.
To generate inordinate questions where no questions existed before.
To raise doubt and humiliate the authorities—
To generate inordinate questions where no questions existed before.
To raise doubt and humiliate the authorities—
To boldly seek made-up answers to preposterous interrogatives!
Like the simplest of all questions: Who am I?
Uh-hummm.
That one will get you every time.
But not today, Sophocles. Aeschylus, Please sit down!
Today we are going to consider the ancient Hindu concept of “karma”.
Lotus position everyone. Absolute silence, and—
OOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMM…….
OM. Gotta love those Bronze Age - Early Iron Age Vedas.
Or, as Sir Isaac would have it: The Third Law: For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.
The grandfather clock model,
Ye olde pocket watch postulate—tick-tock-tick-tock—
The “squeaky clean” scientific-materialist world view.
All the rage in Paris.
The latest fashion in London, Vienna…
Just squeeze a drop of whale oil on the tiny gears and
You’re good to go for another few millennials
Ye olde pocket watch postulate—tick-tock-tick-tock—
The “squeaky clean” scientific-materialist world view.
All the rage in Paris.
The latest fashion in London, Vienna…
Just squeeze a drop of whale oil on the tiny gears and
You’re good to go for another few millennials
Prince Siddhartha liked to call it: The Wheel of the Law: Birth, Aging, Suffering, Sickness, and Death… Birth, Aging, Suffering, Sickness, and—
So forth.
Another impersonal deus ex machina,
Also “godless” if you will—
With a simpler, lick the bowl of white rice clean…
Renunciate point of view.
More Kathmandu than Cairo
Another impersonal deus ex machina,
Also “godless” if you will—
With a simpler, lick the bowl of white rice clean…
Renunciate point of view.
More Kathmandu than Cairo
The Golden Mean, Ratio, Triangle, and Rule aside—
Pythagoras! Please, stop pulling Hypatia’s hair!
I like to think of karma as a very, very large and very, very hefty millstone. A millstone as large and as heavy as planet Earth. A millstone as large and weighty as our Solar System. A millstone as large and ponderous as our Galaxy. A millstone as large and crestfallen as Lord Shiva’s Fuzzy Blue Nutsack—
Well, you’re getting the picture:
Reality is round. And.
It goes round and round.
It tends to move in a predetermined direction
Unless acted upon
By an angry globular ogre
A tyrannical spherical titan or
A duplicitous doge rotund.
It likes to spiral back upon itself. Then.
It wants to repeat ad nauseum.
With beauteous Bach theme-and-variations of course
And proper orderly Latin declensions.
Beneficial mathematical mutations allowed
It tends to spin off little replicas of itself
Of ever perplexing complexity
Curious precarious prancing coursers with
Prodigious whimsical popsicles
Whirlpools drools spools and schools
It goes round and round.
It tends to move in a predetermined direction
Unless acted upon
By an angry globular ogre
A tyrannical spherical titan or
A duplicitous doge rotund.
It likes to spiral back upon itself. Then.
It wants to repeat ad nauseum.
With beauteous Bach theme-and-variations of course
And proper orderly Latin declensions.
Beneficial mathematical mutations allowed
It tends to spin off little replicas of itself
Of ever perplexing complexity
Curious precarious prancing coursers with
Prodigious whimsical popsicles
Whirlpools drools spools and schools
Of centrifugal and centripetal farces.
It appears to exercise a tendency to branch
And spiral out of control.
It will spiral out of control if you let it.
It appears to exercise a tendency to branch
And spiral out of control.
It will spiral out of control if you let it.
It is spiraling out of control right now even as we attempt to—
A millstone as large and as soupy as your life. As my life, in this case. As all of our lives. As life itself! From the beginning…
A millstone as large and as soupy as your life. As my life, in this case. As all of our lives. As life itself! From the beginning…
All of the combined flavors of energy, charge, mass, spin, and… mayo mind… arising in space within the unrestrained context of intemperate time.
Everyone and everything that has ever happened, is happening, will happen… the ample karmic viewpoint.
A runaway millstone that one cannot grab ahold of and slow it down, speed it up… change its course… in other words, because… from the extended, unrestrained kosmic karmic viewpoint… one is standing upon it.
The Kolossal Karmic Ground of Being Itself.
The Mothership. The Motherlode. The Motherstone.
The Mothership. The Motherlode. The Motherstone.
Yo mama.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
So. Christmas of 2013, I made my yearly pilgrimage to New Orleans, LA. My hometown. To visit my aging parents. And. My two young children. Hugh and Syrah. Whom I abandoned in 2003 in Northfield, NH. (See: Waving Hello. The first Confession…)
Do I really want to go here? Oh dear, do I really want to enter into the remote “patristic era” with thee, goodly Saint Augustine of Hippo?
This could get ugly. Isn’t it Truth and Beauty we’re after here?
Oh well.
Reality is the karmic snake in the garden. And it will bite me on the ass.
Onward unrepentant spawn of Adam and darkest night…
So. Christmas of 2013, I crawled down to Louisiana dragging my long, onerous tail in the mud. To receive my yearly blessings, rewards, insults, ultimatums… from the all-knowing, all-powerful… matriarchal and patriarchal gods… the ancients, the originals, the immortals…
The Interminable, Self-Replicating Zygote—
The pugnacious, pugilist pair
Yin and Yang. Zero and One. Plus and Minus. Day and Night.
He and She.
Self-Contradictory Duality Itself.
Ever fertile dilemma, ever ready for combat
Otherwise referred to in this soapy Confession as: Hugh and Lorraine. My biological parents. (Though even to place their given names together on this same sheet of holy cyber-paper could be seen as an incendiary act leading to WWIII!!)
And. To give my unwanted, uncalled for… more than equal and opposite… counter thrusts, feints, and parry ripostes.
En garde!
Come one and all.
“When what to my wandering eyes should appear…”
No. Not “a miniature sleigh and eight tiny…”
Bucks and does. Thank heavens!
But. One very skinny, angry teenage daughter.
Whom I had bequeathed the name of Syrah back in ‘98.
In honor of one of the Five Noble Grape Families. And. The main… lineage holder… grape ingredient in my first true wine love—
The divinely-inspired Chateauneuf du Pape!
My stated intention at the time (in the late 1990’s) was to father 13 lovely strong daughters to work the certified organic farm in Northfield, and help me with the bread baking. Each one of them would receive one of the names of one of the thirteen varieties which go into the making of Chateauneuf du Pape. Firstborn Syrah, being the first and main grape variety as mentioned, was to be followed by Bourboulenc, Cinsaut, Clairette, Counoise, Grenache, Mourvedre, Muscardin, Piquepoul, Roussanne…
But. Alas. Only one slender flame of a daughter was to be born to the lonely woodfired, country bread baker and—
Suddenly!… always suddenly, but—never quite unexpectedly— my now fifteen-year-old, one-and-only, beloved daughter, Syrah, was in a fiery passion to come live with me, her long-lost father, on the west coast!
Yes. For ten years while I struggled diligently to purchase a suitable house for the three of them, and, thereby entice their died-in-the-wood yankee mother to come out to live in Arcata, CA—rent and mortgage-free… I had seen my two kids twice yearly; at Christmas, and then, on visits to California (during the summers) of varying lengths of time. We had kept in increasingly irregular phone contact weekly, monthly… over the years.
I had always imagined, hoped, and strived then… toward that elusive day… that “unreachable star”… whereupon and whence… we would all be reunited as the primordial, Disneyesque “happy family”
So. When my daughter explained to me at Christmas in New Orleans that year that— it had just become “impossible to live with (her) mother a moment longer! You know how impossible she is, Daish!!”
“Daish”… a derivative of dad. That’s what they call me.
I know. I know. Wish fulfillment theory psychology 101 aside—
I knuckled under and said, “Yes,” to the address change.
Furthering: “Upon your mother’s approval.”
Which she assured me was a forthcoming certainty.
But. Hold on a second. Today’s moral lesson… Confession, is suppose to be about karma… the seed, root, stem, branch and flower… the cosmic root source of the tapioca pudding of history right?
Ah yes.
So the unavoidable, unanswered question presents itself: Why did I leave Northfield, NH and my two young children in the first place?
I’m a little hazy on that one, Thucydides. Could you check the historic record while I run to the potty?
Oh boy. This really is getting to be a rather thorough, ungodly “deathbed confession” now, isn’t it, Heredotus?
Let’s see if I can make this as simple, brief and painless as possible?
At some point, around the year 2000, at the ripe age of 45, I began to suspect that “history was (indeed!) repeating itself”—
Yes, there were different actors involved in the apparent action. There always are. That’s how karma works. All parts and players in the primary program of virtual reality appear, disappear and reappear…
The dance of life is an eternal, psycho-protein rondeau.
In my case, the original “imprinting” pair of “cave man vs. cave woman”… dramatic—Psycho Robotiko—mummers… non-professional psychic wrestlers… the geese who laid this golden boy… were the improbable, aforementioned: roaring 20’s-model world warriors, circle 8 square dancers, bitter divorcees at ages—51 and 50 respectively—after 27 years of vital mortal combat, or… unholy matrimonial hell ending in a stalemate… marathon ballroom brawlers
Hugh and Lorraine, dearest.
What I began to realize was. What I began to surmise—
In the year 2000, with the “new and improved” (up-dated) versions:
Alan (me) and Debbie (she).
What I began to suspect, toward the end of the twentieth century, then, was, the following:
No matter how hard I tried to be different from my parents. No matter what I did or thought that I was doing differently from Hugh and Lorraine. No matter how different I thought I was from my father. And no matter how different I was sure Debbie was from my mother. (Although, they are both Aires!!) No matter how much I insisted on “going to family counselling” and “getting help with our problems”, etc…
History—life under the irresistible influences of the laws of karma—action/reaction— was recreating an equally “unhappy marriage” that would either end in bitter, long-drawn-out ugly, unsatisfying divorce, or, the sudden, violent death of one, or both of us.
I could not stop the gargantuan millstone from turning all of our lives into the stuff of nightmares, in other words… no matter how hard I tried.
Even in the heroic role of solitary village baker!
I could see only unhappy children growing up in an unhappy household with bitter, angry, unsatisfied peasant parents at one another’s throats. Great if you’re writing a Dostoevsky novel!! Sure. But. I was thinking more like, Little House on the Certified Organic Farm!? I could see only
bad signs. Dark omens with a violent, ugly climax in the works. The very dark cloud which I had grown up under in my own youth was re-configuring itself before my very eyes into a starkly blooming thunderhead of frightening Louisiana bayou proportions!
The southern civil war plantation of my remote dark past… although transplanted to what I thought was the relative safety of certified organic northern fields… was going up in flames all over again!
Like some dreadful scramble of Gone With the Wind, Crime and Punishment, and, Thomas, the Tank Engine… the whole grain, organic back-to-the-land, cow-shit sourdough... Island of Sodor: Here comes Boulder! Lord of the Ring! "disaster" in mid-earth... hobbit show was going off the rails!!
So, I opted to bow out, Bilbo Baggins-style. To accept humiliating defeat. To retreat to live another day. To… “go west, young man, go west”
Hopefully not... toward some dubious Mordor
Hopefully not... toward some dubious Mordor
And now, or then, Christmas of 2013, again—
There was my very own “flesh and blood” daughter, Syrah, the miraculous child of the grape vintage ’98, rising up before mine eyes after ten years of tormented, separated daily living…
Coming on with full wrath and glory!!
Really? Come on? What was I suppose to say?
No, my child. That was then, this is now. Life moves on.
Sorry, Lady Topham Hat.
You can’t come live with me… your dearly departed dad… for four years of high school?
So. Of course I said, Yes—to the whole mess.
It’s my preordained style. Or haven’t you noticed?
But, the thing is.
That was before I got the news that Genghis had returned for another go round. Or rather, that the Khan was lodging in the Hepatic Hotel, all expenses paid by yours truly.
Will this karmic nightmare called history ever end?!
Will this Confession called Karma ever conclude?
Yes, Zeno. I said, Yes.
Yes. I said.
Please, come live with us—dearest only, child actor, daughter—sweet vintage of my loins.
Yes!!!!
