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Name: Andy
Country: United States
State: Oregon
Metro: Portland
Gender: Male
Interests: I enjoy nerdery of many different shapes and sizes. Those especially worth noting are both listening to and performing music, reading anything I can get my hands on, and watching movies that are- truth told- probably no good.
Occupation: Education/training
Industry: Education/Research
Message: message me
Member Since:
2/3/2006
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| Who knew quantum physics could be a gateway drug to the harder sciences?Those of you who know me know that I am no scientist. Those of you who know me well are no doubt sick of me reminding the world that I am, in fact, no scientist. I came across something the other day that fascinated me, though, and inspired me to momentarily rethink my boycott of the empirical process. While this will not be news to any readers with any kind of capacity for science, I was amazed at what the empirical process was able to demonstrate. And I apologize in advance for how I will inevitably misrepresent what I am about to share...
Apparently, matter acts differently when it is being observed (scientists call it the "observer effect") and the very act of observing matter causes it to behave differently. Although the controversy surrounding this discussion is not surprising, it is causing some scientifically inclined folks to question what scientific facts are objectifiable and to what extent the outcome of an experiment depends upon the expectations of the observer. Related to, but distinct from the observer effect, is what is called the uncertainty principle (sometimes the principle of indeterminacy). This principle stems from the observation that the more precisely one magnitude of a particle is measured, the less precisely other magnitudes of the particle are able to be known in that moment. Many scientists think that this blurring of other magnitudes is a fundamental property of matter and that, consequently, the behavior of matter cannot be reliably predicted.
If you're still reading, I'm sure you're wondering why the hell I find this even a little interesting. You see, as a part of my education as a therapist, I am required to read a bunch of stuck-up, self-important old men try to convince their readers that all behavior, emotions, and even the experience of consciousness or free will can ultimately be reduced to material processes. To put it another way: you don't think, you only think you do; it's actually chemicals interacting inside of you like the gears in a grandfather clock. You are a prisoner of biology. If, however, the world is characterized by possibility and freedom instead of determinism and limitation, we are free to change, grow, to contradict ourselves, and be something other than what we are. So I guess what I'm saying is don't feel guilty about doing something different today and being free. Me, I'm going hiking.
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| And Now Another Word From Our Sponsors...Once again, it's time for me to stop talking so we can listen to someone else.
"The texture of the world, its filigree and scroll work, means that there is the possibility for beauty here, a beauty inexhaustible in its complexity, which opens to my knock, which answers to me a call I do not remember calling, which trains me to the wild and extravagant nature of the spirit which I seek. Were the earth smooth, our brains would be smooth as well; we would wake, blink, walk two steps to get the whole picture, and lapse into a dreamless sleep. Because we are living people and because we are on the receiving end of beauty, another element necessarily enters the equation. The texture of space is a condition of time. If we were to judge nature by its common sense or likelihood, we wouldn't believe the world existed. In nature, improbabilities are the one stock in trade. The whole creation is one lunatic fringe. No claims of any and all revelations could be as far fetched as a single giraffe. Beauty itself is the fruit of the creator's exuberance that grew such a tangle, and the grotesques and horrors grow from that same free growth, that intricate scramble and twine up and down the conditions of time."
- Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek
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| Storytime...Alright kids, gather 'round the internet campfire- it's storytime. I should warn you, however, this story contains adult situations like driving in a car and was brought to you by dirty words that start with the letter "F." So make sure you have your milk warmed and your wool undies hiked up, because this one's going to get interesting. With those disclaimers in place, we proceed...
It was warm and wet tonight, and when it's like this in the Spring I like to drive around town with my windows down. I was coming back from an evening recording session at Quaker Gun World Headquarters¹ and, as I approached the intersection at 52nd and Division to turn right, I noticed a pedestrian making her way along the sidewalk in the same direction I was going. Being a law-abiding "nice guy"- at least when it's convenient- I stopped at the green light, blinker flashing, intending to allow her to safely pass before executing my turn. After all, this is Portland, the kind of place where we wait for our fellow drivers to let us in when merging on the freeway so that we can give them a well-earned "courtesy wave." I felt as though I was following firmly established neo-hippie road protocol, but apparently our pedestrian friend felt differently. The woman stopped, leaned in and squinted against the glare of the streetlights in order to get a good look at me. She was about 35, blond and wrinkly, and- when she opened her mouth to speak- the proud owner of maybe three teeth. "You might as well go first," she shouted, "'cause I'll be damned if you wait for me you fucking fagot." I can only imagine that her breath smelled like Arby's, and feel it to be convincing evidence of the existence of divine providence that she was not close enough to confirm or deny these suspicions. I wasn't quite sure what to do, but in the face of language that belligerent I think I remember neo-hippie protocol declaring every man for himself, so I made my turn and contemplated the transaction that just took place. I grew up in a very conservative part of Oregon, and I had never met anyone who would describe themselves as homosexual (at least that I was aware of) until I had moved away to college. A word like the one this woman used was used by ignorant people in my hometown for gentlemen with such gratuitous self-indulgences such as- oh I don't know- personal hygiene for instance. Against this backdrop, and especially given the fact that said crazy lady is obviously awfully ignorant, I couldn't help but take the verbal sucker-punch as a compliment. I'll just assume that she was noticing my deliberate effort to shower on a daily basis, and nothing more. As to my feelings for her, I couldn't help but think that some people could use a good hug. Or maybe just a toothbrush and a thump on the side of the head.
All right kids, that's my story and now it's time for bed. So good night, sleep tight, and dream of foul mouthed three-toothed beauties. I know I will.
¹By the way, for those of you out there who have yet to grow weary of throwing your hard earned grown-up money at my lingering adolescent attempts at artistic expression, album number 3 is officially in production. You heard it here first.
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| A professor told our class this week:
"Thoughts are tools. Don't think thoughts that don't work. I don't care if you probably should hate yourself; the thought just doesn't work. Personally, I've never met a person who didn't like me once they got to know me. See?"
Thoughts are tools, then. I think music is a tool as well. Certain records perform certain functions in my life. Take Nick Drake's "Pink Moon," for example. I used this record for years to combat insomnia. It didn't matter how twitterpated or antsy I was, this record would put me to sleep better than a warm milk and Nyquil cocktail. Alas, good things can't last as long as I would like them to. Last night, years after his untimely death, Mr. Drake failed me for the first time. I couldn't sleep and not even all of the droning, meandering folk in the world could coax Mr. Sandman out of his hideout.
I am now fielding suggestions for a new "insomnia-cure" record. Any suggestions?
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| Dear Mr. Reaper,[Editor's Note: The following blog contains morbid content. If at any point in time in reading the following you become disturbed and begin to question the author's sanity, please click here as crisis counselors are standing by and waiting to help you.]
I had the most gruesome assignment in school the other day. I'll tell you about the assignment and then, if you want, you can try it too. Personally, I think I liked it. But then again I'm kinda ward that way. The assignment is as follows:
1) Make a timeline of your life focusing on the significant events that have most shaped who you are today. Don't be afraid to be creative, but try to be concise. After all, doing a personal timeline that's the length of a master's thesis would smack of narcissism (which, it turns out, it a bad thing!). Make sure to note that many, if not most, of the events that are most directly responsible for who you are and how you understand yourself today are, in a word, tragic.
2) Make a timeline that projects the events of the rest of your life. Once again, be creative, but concise. It's also important for this part of the assignment to keep in mind that you are not projecting how you want things to happen ("married to European supermodel TBA in 2015 and raptured shortly thereafter" won't get you an A on this assignment, kids), but rather your best guess at how things really will go. Also try to keep in mind that if the people we are today are largely the pieces of our broken dreams (see part 1 of this assignment), then the events that shape our future are likely to be messy. So don't forget the deaths of loved ones, the occasional tragedy, and eventually the events directly leading to your own death.
For some punk-ass kid like me, the above was a haunting exercise in my own sense of mortality. For the record, I eventually get my master's and get married to someone famous (or at least someone I think should be famous), have two kids (both brats, of course, like kids ought to be), battle depression and a sense of orgin-less guilt, sell a ranch and an era with my family, bury loved ones, see one child get married, receive a diagnosis of Parkinson's disease, and die in a car wreck at 64. Or at least that's one way I imagined that the rest of my life could play itself out.
The thing I got to thinking about when I did this assignment was, if my life does happen like that, what kind of person am I going to allow those events to make me into? A dead one for sure, but that's not too terribly surprising. What I'm really hoping and praying is that somewhere along the line, before I'm a dead person, that I can find the integrity to live a couple of days as something a little more than dead. Life is a mystery, all hollowed out by tragedy and yet in the same breath hauntingly beautiful. I don't know what kind of person I will become but, I know I'll be hollowed out by tragedy regardless of how things go. I really hope that, before I'm a dead person, I can manage to- for a little while- become the kind of person that is mysteriously alive. | | |
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