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| I Found a Penny Today, So Here's a Thought |
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The Bio-Mechanics of Loneliness
A caged parrot is in one room, a microwave oven in another.
The microwave emits a beep every thirty seconds...
alerting the fact that it still holds a cup of reheated coffee.
The parrot mimics each beep in turn, a forlorn whistle to a distant stranger.
Two-second expressions of loneliness and abandonment...
Like bio-mechanical clockwork.
Something was left here... it's getting cold.
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The composer Ken Clinger wrote a song based upon this vignette
of mine about the parrot mimicing the microwave. Here are the
lyrics that Ken came up with:
deep beneath the feathers, dwells a consciousness intact
memories of amazon, the jungle world of past
dwelling in this northern clime, a solitary life
a solitary parrot, lonely quiet for its plight
humans come and humans go, but they make no impression
daydreams in the silence, as time makes its own progression
but something in the here and now, is calling for attention
another room, a microwave, demanding intervention
(beep beep) i'm signaling
(beep beep) is any-one there
(beep beep) i'm waiting waiting
(beep beep) does any-one care
(beep beep) i've done my duty
(beep beep) i've made it hot
(beep beep) the time's increasing
(beep beep) the heat is not
what is that motion, deep in the parrot musing
something touching time and
what is that calling, beyond the jungle daydream,
signals hinting meaning
an urgent message, something has been forgotten
something losing heat and
i feel connected, i feel a newborn kinship
calling, begging for re-sponse
microwave with parroting, a consciousness intact
looping forward endlessly, a symbiotic pact
combined they trigger something, unexpected ringing true
it starts to gain momentum, with the power to renew
re-verberating outward, waves vibrating form a core
flowing out into a world, not knowing what's in store
[Here's a link to an mp3 of Ken's recording.]
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Saint Trigo
Patron of Oblique Triangles.
A former mathematician, Saint Trigo beseeched the Trinity for a
miracle, or as he put it, "a sine or a cosine." He received a
vision of oblique triangles, took a vow of silence, and dedicated the
rest of his life to discovering the "right angle" to approach
God. Some have speculated that Saint Trigo's quietude inspired
the novelist Stephen White to write the following phrase in his book Harm's Way:
"oblique triangles of muted illumination"
Though some considered Saint Trigo's
writings "obtuse" or "veering off on wild tangents," his dedication to
the Trinity had no parallel.
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I dreamed that my mother and I went to some sort of retreat held in a rickety old house and led by a woman best described as an old sorceress or witch. The majority of her regular followers were female children (though there were dozens of adults at this retreat as well), and her retreats involved starving yourself for six days in the dead of winter, the only heat derived from huddling together. I said to one of the girls, "I imagine that the fasting gets easier as it goes along," and she replied that it gets worse until it's over. The girls were all very skinny, and I remarked to myself how frequent six-day fasts were likely to stunt a child's growth. One of the participants was a celebrity that Mom and I quickly recognized: the man who played the father on the American t.v. sitcom "Diff'rent Strokes." Mom jumped up and said to him, "You need to give me a hug." At first he didn't seem to hear her and started to sit down, but then her words registered in his ear and he jumped back up to embrace her. Then he saw me, and while he gave me a hug I was aware that he was smelling my hair. He seemed so delighted by our hug that he gave me a second one, again smelling my hair. I assumed that the shampoo I had used still smelled good. Mom whispered to me, "Tell him about Stig Helmer." I realized that he bore an uncanny resemblance to the actor who played Stig Helmer in the Danish television series "The Kingdom." I wasn't sure what anecdote Mom wanted me to share, so I stammered for a few moments about Stig Helmer being one of my favorite characters in film and how this actor looked just like him. (The actor who played Stig Helmer passed away recently, but I failed to mention that fact.) The next thing I remember, the witch is calling everyone together to go to sleep. I realize that I haven't brought a blanket or pillow, so I scramble around the house looking for a quilt to lie on. I finally find a blanket and join the group, imagining how hard the floor is going to feel. The witch walks around the room singing an eerie song to initiate sleep. I think her lyrics are masterful. Rather than lulling us into dark oblivion, she calls upon us to actively see through closed eyes the light of the dream world. I am lying on my side, with my head cradled on my bent arms. As the witch continues to roam the room and sing, I hear her kneeling down by my head to touch each of my palms with a finger and spread them apart slightly. I somehow know that this is another aspect of her sleep technique. However, I have a bit of trouble falling asleep. After the song ends and the witch leaves, the room is not quiet. Clearly, there are others who have not fallen asleep either. I open my eyes to see several people up and moving about. One man sits at an elaborate desk decorated with all sorts of statues and carvings. He is typing on a computer keyboard, and with each strike of a key one of the statues animates, turning its head or moving its mouth as if to talk or sing. I realize that I am lying next to the "Diff'rent Strokes" actor. We snuggle for warmth, and he rests his hand between my legs. The next thing I know, everyone in the room is standing up, bumping and grinding, and giving each other haircuts with electric clippers. I realize that virtually everyone had had long, hippie-style hair, and now everyone is sporting buzz cuts. People come up to one another and, in disbelief of the transformation, say, "So and so, is that really you?" When the witch comes into the room alerted by the hubbub, I expect her to be upset, but she doesn't seem to be. I get the feeling that the retreat is over, and I look around a bit for my toothbrush to freshen my sour mouth before leaving (though I never can find it). As I leave, I walk past the witch's room. I see her lying in bed, and I bow to her, feeling remarkably free and happy. She says, "Don't you know who I am?" over and over again, like an echo in which each repeated phrase is quieter than the last. Then I realize that the witch is dead, and has actually been dead for quite some time. And then I realize that I have been looking at a photograph of her all along. On the drive away from the retreat, we pass by an enormous Hindu shrine which is conducting a huge celebration and parade with hundreds of costumed singers, dancers, elephants. They are singing and playing their music in a modern techno style which sounds marvelous to me, making me feel downright euphoric. We drive on, though the music doesn't diminish as we gain distance, and I wish that our driver would pull over so we could walk back to the celebration. The next thing I know, Mom and I are sitting in one of the rooms of the shrine. They are passing out instruments to everyone in our long row of people. People who had participated in the celebration many times are being called to perform special roles in the parade. We are content to sit where we are. A large crowd has formed outside the shrine to hear us play. I tell Mom that I had earlier tried to call my aunt dying of cancer, to thank her for these instruments.
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I dreamed I was a comma again, this time setting off a phrase as an
entity, at the same time emphasizing the coherence of the preceding and
following terms. Then I was in heaven, and had become a mark to
indicate a pause to take a breath. I reminded readers everywhere
to BREATHE! I felt so important (though not conceited).
While in heaven, I saw the face the Creator.
Then I dreamed about "magnificent sentences" penned by "an aristocrat
of letters" whose "baroque semicolons and rolling phrases rumble like
drums," exactly as described in TERROR AND LIBERALISM by Paul Berman. |
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Some people liken the Yin-Yang symbol to two interlocked fish, each
with an eye of the opposite color. I recently dreamed that I was,
in essence, the light eye of the dark fish. I was visiting a shop
in an old downtown setting, the entrance at the top of a short flight
of stairs. When I walked in the door, the owners (three men,
standing together talking in an aisle near the door) eyed me with great
interest, and I got the impression that they found it significant that
I had returned. One of them perhaps even said "Welcome back,"
though if not then the feeling was the same. This shop was an
emporium of darkness. However, it wasn't how one might picture a
Voudou shop or Hollywood-style den of devil-worshippers. There
was absolutely no feeling of the Christian definition of "evil"
here. This was a place devoid of dualistic judgments. It
was simply and purely the stuff of darkness. It was like any
typical shop, with rows of display shelves, only more dimly lit in a
purplish or ultraviolet glow, with gothic velvet curtains and the
like. The patrons moved about the store very quietly and slowly,
with a sense of awe or at least propriety. I walked through the
displays with increasing fascination and with a feeling of immense
happiness. The store will full of amazing artifacts behind glass,
such as figurines from different cultures and time periods (I was
particularly impressed by the gargoyles and other grotesqueries) and
elaborately bound ancient books of a sacred nature. There was a
lifetime of wisdom available here. The more I looked, the more I
dreamed of running such a shop myself, convinced that such a venture
would be incredibly successful. I had a sense that the owners
were watching me or at least eager to speak with me, and at some point
I decided to slip out. Upon leaving the shop and standing on the
street outside, my dream became lucid. I started to feel slightly
fearful of the neighborhood, but since I knew that I was dreaming, I
knew that I could fly away if I wanted to, so I did. Why do I say
that I was the light eye in the dark fish? I was not the darkness
itself, but I was surrounded by it and an integral part of it. I
felt at home there, and immeasurably peaceful. The darkness, I
suppose, made my light all the brighter. Being free of dualistic
labels was a revelation. The artifacts were not, as one might
have instinctively said, evil, ugly, horrific, or disturbing.
They were perfect--that's all. Why did I become fearful upon
leaving the shop? I don't know. Perhaps the light/dark
balance was offset the farther I went from the shop?
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Saint Gian Acque
Patron of Abominable Taste.
Saint Gian Acque was recognized by his devotion to checked jackets,
excess ornamentation, lentils, gilt papers, and scented candles.
It is believed that "The Pope of Trash" (a.k.a. "The King of Bad
Taste" and "The Sultan of Sleaze") John Waters took his name from Gian Acque.
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I've always loved the ellipsis as a symbol of textual silence.
Here's an account of a surreal dream of being an ellipsis, from the Will Type for Food blog:
Am suffering from constant
nightmares. I dream I am an ellipsis, coming at the end of a long
short story (or possibly a short long story) by a famous author,
possibly Borges. The story is also a single sentence. I
always wake up, yelling hysterically, and crying; wondering what is to
come next. |
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I particularly love the second paragraph of this ode to the semicolon. It's from the Financial Times (excerpted by Amygdala):
The semicolon “signals that you’re not
expressing a singular thought”, explains the prolific cultural critic,
Chris Lehmann. “It signals that there’s tension, that there is some
contradictory evidence - and you [have to] sort of trust readers to be
able to deal with that, which most editors don’t and many writers
don’t.” Menand locates this fear of complexity in the idea that
language should do no more than hold up a mirror to the world. “If you
subscribe to linguistic transparency, there’s a bias in favour of
simplicity,” he says.
[...]
It may seem bizarre to read so much into a stop on the page, but the
semicolon is a pause for ambiguity, amusement, complexity, doubt, and
nuance. If writing lacks these “genteel” qualities, can we be all that
surprised if it is either as dull as a computer manual, or as demagogic
as a soapbox on Hyde Park Corner? |
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| I Found a Penny Today, So Here's a Thought |
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I saw the documentary "Winged Migration" on DVD, and it got me to
thinking a lot about magic and how breathtaking, uplifting miracles can
become so disappointing (and worse than that -- actually negative, or
an experience of spiritual diminishment) when one discovers the secret
of how the trick works. If you've seen the film, you know what
truly magical moments were caught on camera. Most of the scenes
seem "impossible," so extraordinary are they. I wasn't so much
asking "how did they do it?" (because I knew they must have been in
airplanes and holding cameras!), but more "how could they possibly have
captured so many rare, once-in-a-lifetime occurrences?") It was
one of the most striking movie experiences of my life, and I have seen
a lot of films (well-over three thousand films over the last decade
alone). Alas, I began watching the "making of" featurette on the
DVD, and I was totally devastated. The "secret" of the filmmakers
was far more diabolical than I could have possibly imagined. All
of the magic drained away, and I was left feeling tricked (the bad kind
of tricked -- as in swindled by con-men). When a magician does
something miraculous on stage, you've paid to be entertained and you
delight in being fooled. When a documentary filmmaker dupes you,
it's a whole different story. I found myself feeling outraged
over and over again as I learned about the astonishingly elaborate
methods the filmmakers employed to secure their footage (though they
didn't put strings on the birds' claws and fly them like kites, such a
method wasn't beneath them). I actually had to shut off the DVD
player after the worst revelation -- they crated up the pelicans and
flew them in an airplane to Africa so as to record that leg of the
birds' migratory "journey." I would have far more enjoyed
watching a cartoon about birds, or a LucasArts digital rendering of
birds, because neither would have pretended to be a legitimate
documentary. Of course, it all boils down to packaging, doesn't
it? Had the sham-documentary filmmakers stated upfront that this
film was an artistic depiction of how birds fly, and explained that all
the birds in the film were actors (which is actually quite true, as the
birds had been raised and imprinted by the filmmakers from eggs, then
trained to fly on cue alongside the aircraft and to follow the sound of
the squeeze horn), then I probably would have been quite amazed and
delighted by so elaborate an endeavor! As it was, they presented
a fantastic illusion, then turned around and showed how they did it,
leaving the viewer feeling gullible. Had they been real
wonder-workers instead of con-artists, they would have left the viewer
feeling amazed, not duped.
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SONG: Dime at a Time
ARTIST: Norma Jean
ORIGINAL LYRIC:
Two dollars in the jukebox...
And I'll put in the jukebox a dime at a time
ADJUSTED FOR INFLATION:
Two dollars in the jukebox...
With each song on the jukebox I'm a quarter shorter
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SONG: I Love Rock 'N Roll ARTIST: The Arrows (covered by Joan Jett) ORIGINAL LYRIC: I love rock n' roll So put another dime in the jukebox, baby I love rock n' roll So come an' take your time an' dance with me ADJUSTED FOR INFLATION-RESISTANCE: I love rock n' roll So drop another token and let's get smokin' I love rock n' roll The juke's not broken so dance with me (Thanks to Gordon for suggesting this song) JCE suggests that one day jukeboxes might accept only card-swipes,
a la Kinko's self-serve machines. Just in case that happens, he suggests the following adjustment:
I love rock n' roll
So swipe your stripe in the jukebox, baby
I love rock n' roll
The time is ripe to dance with me
On a semi-related note, software engineer Gordon Meyer says:
I recently read that the latest jukes have become Internet-enabled to allow huge catalogs of sounds, streamed on demand. A natural evolution, I suppose. But one idea that surprised me was that at least one model allows you to pay extra and have your selections moved to the front of the playback queue! It also allows you to schedule repeats of the song at regular intervals at a reduced rate.
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I dreamed I was a comma (after having corrective surgery to remove my
period half). At last I indicated a slight pause separating two
related but distinct terms!
Then I dreamed of a small stall advertising "The Wonders of Punctuation
and Spelling," with a sign that said "The Mystery of the Semicolon
Revealed!!!" and "See the Ampersand! (Small Extra Charge)," just as in
THE WEE FREE MEN by Terry Pratchett.
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"Are you looking for trouble?" Yes, because the philosopher Hegel
said that with the end of conflict will come the end of history.
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Original Content Copyright © 2026 by Craig Conley. All rights reserved.
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