The Premise

Start with a premise:

Two dice rolled,

The number on the first die

added to an infinite arithmetic

sequence of the second number.

Which combinations will produce 

a perfect square somewhere

in the resulting sequence?

It is a debate for mathletes

and siblings around a  table,

the laptop called into play whose

trial and result program makes

an aggravating background beep

like a dripping faucet

churning out numbers

in stream with the voices'

rising falling currents. 

Any two, when added to 

infinitely again the same

moment by moment

do not always achieve perfection.

Another two, added alike,

will produce each perfected gem

upon its turn.

One plus one is obvious,

but five plus three

takes much more figuring.

When random dice threw us together

I did not know what perfect squares

we could add around our table

we just kept adding up the moments

letting the sequence run on 

in an accumulation of identity

rooted in the place and time we met.

I am no laptop to calculate

yet I discern a function 

in the easy laughter.  

This investigation probes

for theoretic values,

where absolute value lies. 

These squares of you and me,

the geometrically sound

sequence of our effort,

give meaning to our premise

and prove the sum of

all our parts. 

QED.

Enlightenment Pt 3: Orange

Rising through the spectrum from the reds at the base, orange next comes into view.  It is the color of the second chakra, located at the genitals, which surges with the life-giving drive for bodily pleasure.  It is the pleasures of the flesh, on the lips and tongue as well as on the genitals, that relates the second chakra to the sense of taste and the element of water.  A newborn child, emerging from the waters of the womb, comes equipped with a desire for sweetness.  We are creatures of the ocean, salt water held in by the membranes of our cells, and our chemistry demands aqueous solution to perform every bodily function.  We taste and reproduce with the juices of life, saliva, mucus, semen, and the pervasive intercellular liquids that allow ion channels to transmit sensation into the oh-so-receptive pleasure palaces of our brains.

In the sensory-motor cortex of the brain, the area dedicated to the mouth, lips, and tongue is second only to the hands for size and number of sensory cells involved.  If you add in the genitals, there is no comparison for density of sensation concentrated in these special orifices.  We are also equipped with a limbic system that binds sensation to memory with the various hues of our emotions, deepening and saturating our memories according to the pleasure we experience.  We are wired for appetite, to crave pleasures, to seek out the tastes that cascade orgasmic delight throughout our bodies and minds.  

There are numerous species of plants that take advantage of our pleasure-seeking to further their own reproduction.  One way they advertise their desirably sweet nutritiousness is with beta carotene, the bright, bold, orange pre-cursor to vitamin A.  Carrots, papayas, yams, squashes, oranges, mangoes, persimmons, apricots, so many delectable fruits and vegetables clearly proclaim themselves as eminently edible with their eye-catching orange color.  In a green, leafy world, the earliest simians had no difficulty discovering these delicious treasures.  As our species evolved to become cultivators of the land, we assisted natural selection to breed tastier and more colorful varieties for the further pleasure of our palettes.

With our bellies full, we can turn our attention to reproduction.  Appetite for sex and appetite for food are so well intertwined that romance is iconically defined by a dinner date.  On the flip side, many compulsive overeaters will admit their appetite for food is an effort to suppress their emotional and sexual frustrations.  Well-fed populations are populations that breed, whether humans or rodents or anything else.  In the beauty of order emerging  from chaos, life organizes simpler organisms into more specialized creatures through an ongoing process of eating and screwing.  The wondrous complexity of it all shows up in who eats what and whom, and you don't have to be a dedicated sybarite to notice that the oral-genital connection is a viable avenue to mind-blowing climax.

In mythology, the goddess of dawn was associated with rapacious female desire and all-important fecundity.  She rose from the sea, the horizon at first as red as her menses, then glowing orange until the day grew bright with the fire of the sun.  It was in her honor that the saffron plant was cultivated as a dye for clothing and a seasoning for food.  Native to Crete, saffron spread throughout the ancient world,  helped as much by its power as an aphrodisiac among the Persians as by its other uses.  The association between saffron's color, which ranges from almost red to pale yellow, and the life-giving force of sexual appetite was so strong in India at the time of the Buddha that his followers chose saffron to color their robes as a symbol for what they were sacrificing with their monastic celibacy.  The wandering ascetics in India as well have worn that color for millennia to announce their renunciation of household life.  It is as if by wrapping themselves in the color of life they show the struggle to sublimate the urges of the body into the quest of the spirit.  Even politically, India has chosen a deep saffron orange for its flag to symbolize struggle and sacrifice.

When the kundalini serpent awakens the second chakra, the senses ignite.  Whether in the molten glory of orgasm or the breaking water of childbirth, we swim here in the ocean of life.  We surge with the pull of its tides, called by the juices in us to mingle with another of our kind in an intimate embrace of kiss and caress, desire and creativity, and the ecstatic sweetness of physical passion ensures the generation of generations to come.  For many creatures that is the be-all and end-all of their existence, a lifelong cycle of feeding and fucking, with contentment and satiety lasting only as long as it takes to sleep off a meal.  There is more to being human, and the kundalini serpent must slither further up the chakras if one is to avoid the rut of mindless bestiality.  However, the journey of enlightenment deliberately navigates the oceanic vitality of our sensual appetites to swell our experiences with the joys of palate and passion.  Bobbing on the crests and furrows of pleasure's waves, we can drift in delight and deliciousness, discovering in this way the hydroelectric dynamo whose essential power fuels all life.

Obscurity

It was night. Isn't it always, in a film noir cliche kind of way, always night when anything of note happens? Only this wasn't much to note, unless, like her, you have to notice every chance encounter in order to see that one night is different from the next. It had to be night, because for her there was only night after the time change. She emerged into night from days that oscillated in florescent brightness from numbness to boredom and back, days that were a demand on her patience more than on her ability, days measured by a ticktock of fingers on a keyboard clicked around the clock with a second hand's regularity. Stepping out onto the rain-blackened sidewalk into the covering shadow, she closed the door on that false constancy of forced brightness and opened her eyes again.

Light pooled and splashed in gutter puddles, coursed by with the slow searching beams of passing cars, bled from windows and porches of the houses that lined the streets. Rain fell softly in a drizzly mist that hadn't quite decided whether to pour or to leave off. She turned her collar up and hunched under her umbrella, but the rain caught up to her and carried in on its wet breath a moment of indecision. That was all it took. She turned her steps left, not right towards home, and let them carry her instead into the warm, familiar busyness of her favorite bakery cafe.

She sat down with her coffee and should-have-been birthday cake at a small table near the door, the only one empty, where the night gushed in with a chill burst every time the door opened. "I need this," she thought to herself as she sipped the hot, fragrant brew. She slowly slid the tines of her fork through the cake's thick chocolate. "I need this," she affirmed as she held that rich intensity on her tongue until its bittersweetness melted into a shimmer of memory. It hadn't bothered her that her birthday had come and gone without regard over a week ago. She had seen too many to care much for them, and had no desire to be humiliated by a forest of candles, but she had missed this ritual sensuality, this dark perfection unfolding in her mouth as celebration not of age but of still living.

She was in the midst of this reverie when the door opened to spill the contents of the night into the room. This time it was a solitary young man who stood dripping beside her table for several moments as if to adjust his eyes to the difference in light. She saw him first in the soft focus of her half-lidded inward eyes, and the light of the room eddied around him like a glowing halo. He wore an old black trench coat open over black jeans and a once white cable-knit sweater. His wet black hair stood in spikes where he ran his fingers through it. He moved as if underwater, slowly and deliberately, as he ordered his coffee and looked around for a place to sit down. The empty chair at her table mocked her solitude with silent irony, and it was inevitable that he would sit down there.

He did not look at her as he wrapped both hands around his steaming cup, gathering the heat into his palms. He brought the coffee to his mouth with the same slow concentration that he did everything and held it there as if it were to become part of his face. There was something in his studied indifference that allowed her to look at him directly, to see the curve of his cheekbone blend into the hard line of his jaw and the ebony sheen of his eyes contrast with the pallor of his skin. He reached into his pocket and brought out a few items that he laid carefully on the table in front of them. A cheap black plastic Casio watch. A medium-sized cowrie shell. A battered black wooden domino. He spread them as if at a flea market, his wares for sale, worth a few cents more if displayed well to catch the light. Then he picked up each, like a reluctant customer judging the usefulness or sense in it.

By now, she was watching curiously, her cake almost forgotten. He drew her in with his silence, until even by speaking, he could not lose her. "What is the thread that binds these bits?" he asked in the tone of one picking up a conversation where it left off. "The connection, you know. There has to be one." When he looked at her, she knew his inquiry was genuine. His finger stroked along the polished curve of the cowrie shell in his hand and then back up along the dark line of the infolding edges. She shivered slightly. "I see one connection," she said, forgetting herself along with the cake. "Money. Time is money. Cowries were used as money. Dominoes can be played for money." He looked up at her sharply, his eyes direct into hers. "Yeah. Yeah, thanks. Alright!" was all he said before he became a flurry of activity.

He gulped down the rest of his coffee, stood and pulled out his wallet. He dropped a five dollar bill down on the table and in the same motion, scooped up his trinkets. "What....?" she started to say, but he cut her off. "That's for the tip. Thanks!" With that as parting shot, he was out the door into the night. She looked at Abraham Lincoln's face staring up at her. He didn't seem to know any better than she did what that was all about, but she decided to keep him, for he was, after all, a sort of birthday present and tribute to the pervasive obscurity of night.

Discrimination

Discrimination is making choices.  That is not an evil in itself, though it can be very difficult.  In common parlance, it has come to mean giving preference to one group of people over another group in a way that allows the preferred group more privilege.  That sort of discrimination leads to injustice and deserves the negative connotations.   However, every day we are faced with a myriad of choices and it is in the choosing that we create our lives.  

Making art is a process of deliberation and decision.  Even the most instinctual, stream of consciousness Zen art requires that attention and focus to keep an open mind.  Often decisions are greatly affected by environmental factors the artist can't control, as well as limitations in skill or materials.  The image in the mind's eye doesn't always translate to expression in an exact way, and the feedback of results from the attempt changes the mental image as well.

These three photos began with an open inquiry into whatever caught my eye as I walked through Golden Gate Park.  I found a hollow in a tree small enough to cover with my hand.  I didn't have any image in mind as I brought my camera closer and closer into the hole.  I was shooting in black and white at the time with the camera set on manual aperture adjustment.  I was surprised to see this creepy, crouching tree gollum emerge in the view finder.  I tried a variety of settings to see how contrast, depth of field, and color affected the image.  Of the many shots I took, these are the three that I liked.

Each of these photos has a distinct feel.  I don't have a "favorite" between them, as they all speak to me strongly.  However, I didn't want to post all three to my flickr photostream because I think redundancy would dilute whatever power there is in that image.  For art to be an act of self-expression, I had to align myself with a particular feeling one of those pictures held and choose to share that.  The color photo on the left appeals to my curiosity, my quizzical, rational desire to know what that is clearly and accurately.  The color photo on the right appeals to my senses most powerfully.  The reds are hellish, the shadows dark and impenetrable, and the overall sensation is nightmarish and foreboding.  

The picture I did choose to present is the one on top.  It is most revealing of my state of mind at the time and in reflection.  I see it as mysterious, strange, evocative, and eerie, but not in a directly menacing way.  Because it is in black and white, it shows what my initial curiosity had been, and the high contrast provides a dark creepiness.  It reminds me more of old horror movies than anything I might actually encounter.  Monochrome has that distancing effect on me, as if whatever I am seeing is already in the past or from an alternate world bereft of color.

When I look through the camera, I don't just ask "What do I see?".  I also ask "What can I see?".  I can adjust the focus, the amount of light, the color, the framing, all sorts of things that teach me other possible ways to see.  If it weren't so frustratingly difficult (as a novice) to take professional quality photos, I would feel tremendously powerful by this ability to capture and manipulate vision.  As it is, I simply become more and more self-aware.  I notice my choices in what I see, what I choose to show, and what I want to return to in another light to try for what I missed the first time.

Tonight my writing choice was expository.  I think the image I found inside that tree deserves more.  It is something I want to return to again, to discover the story I see lurking there, to delve into its mysteries, and thus to go into my own Twilight Zone.  Stay tuned.

Nora & Olivier

Nora & Olivier

Originally uploaded by idilyK

He said: What do you think?
She said: Wouldn't you like to know?
He said: I think I do.
She said: You think so?
He said: Of course. I am French and you are a woman.
She said: Then why do you ask?
He said: I like to hear you say it.
She said: I think there is more to you than meets the eye.
He said: For your eyes, ma cherie, I will offer more. Just say the word and I will reveal myself to you.
She said: What, here on the street?
He said: You are risque today, no?
She said: Is it easier to bare your body or your soul?
He said: In the bedroom, the body. On the street, the soul.
She said: What if I want to see both?
He said: Ahhh, women. So demanding!

Enlightenment Pt 2: Red

Red, the lowest frequency of visual light, rolls in on long, penetrating waves to alert the senses with unmistakeable demand. It is the color of the first chakra, at the base of the spine, where the coiled serpent of kundalini energy originates its cycle through the chakras. This is the root chakra, closest to the support of the earth, occupied with the business of survival, elimination, and stability. The element associated with this chakra is earth, and its controlling sense is smell.

The experience of red, as it surrounds in nature and design, is a highly individual event. If you try to think of what red smells like, assuming you aren't a synesthete, it may be like sun-warmed strawberries picked right off the plant or it may be like the Kool-Aid that washed down every meal you had at summer camp. That all depends on your personal memories. Culturally, red has a variety of associations far beyond the first chakra. It is the valentine color of love, the crimson dye of devotion, the lucky color of celebration throughout Asia, the sexy attention-grabbing hue of machismo and female availability, the ritual color of Neanderthal cave art, the alarming signal of emergency, the politically charged designation of conservatism, communism, nationalism, and plenty of other isms. When I make connections between colors, chakras, elements and senses, I do not mean to suggest that our nervous system is that simplistic. I am describing an overlaid pattern to the infinite combinations of stimulation and response that occur constantly within a conscious body and mind. Amid the chaos of sense awareness, these connections are the strange attractors, the emergent complexities arising from the turbulence.

Eye-catching and powerfully charged with symbolism, red begins the spectrum. I would like to say that the long waves are more easily processed than subtler waves at higher frequencies, but I don't know that as a fact. I did a little online reaction response test just now. (You can too at http://faculty.washington.edu/chudler/java/backtime.html.) I was a tiny bit faster at responding to red the first time but not on all subsequent attempts. (I suspect the varied delay times also affect attention and reaction.) I think it more likely that we have evolved to respond quickly to shedding blood, a substance so high in oxygen-carrying iron molecules that it turns bright red on exposure to air. It is that primal alert that denotes survival, our basic need for safety and drive to live.

Linked closely to survival is the sense of smell. It is the primary sense of the reptilian brain which sits at the inner core of the human brain and presides over reflex and instinct. The amygdala, an important little hub in the limbic brain, evolved from more primitive olfactory bulbs. Smell is the sense that first directs us to food and away from danger. It is so basic that we don't even have to be awake for it to affect us, nor do we need to actively notice it for a whole cascade of physiological responses to kick in.

Of the elements, earth is at the densest end of the spectrum. In an inverse relation to lightwaves, the tighter packed the atoms are, the less the motion. It is this closeness of particles that gives rise to surface tensions and the sensation of solidity. As creatures that walk on two legs, an alternating balancing act, we rely heavily on the myriad proprioceptive nerves in our feet, knees, and hips that join in a nexus at the base of the spine. We are held up by the earth and maintain stability by this constant conversation at the root chakra.

Arousal to awareness begins here in the iron rich reds of earth and blood. When we sit to meditate, we can't avoid putting strong, direct pressure on the first chakra. Here, the serpent uncoils its energetic self to slither up the ladder of the spine and spark the other chakras alive with its motion. Then, once the day is through, the belly full and shelter found, it seeks to return here, in the red setting of the sun, to the lightless mercy of our nightly slumber.

Afternoon Still Life

The warm Indian summer sun poured into the courtyard, a welcome turn for a day that had begun crisp. It was almost visiting time as the orderly wheeled the chair into position under a flaming maple. The old woman remained hunched in her new spot, her white head bent down close to her chest, her wizened fingers picking at the blanket on her lap. From time to time she would sway her head from side to side, her eyes raking the space in front of her where crimson and burnished gold leaves lay in a jumble on the ground. It was her deep nasal inhalations that most showed her appreciation of the surroundings.

The afternoon scents hung heavy in the still air, an abundance of leafy dryness mixed with the late lavender and oregano in the nearby herb boxes. Closer to her clung the stale decay of her deterioration despite the scrubbed clean odor of institutional soap. What made her nostrils flare, though, was the potpourri pomander tied to her armrest for her afternoon aromatherapy session. It was a pungent blend of cinnamon, clove, orange peels, dried apples, and fragrant bark chips. With each inhale, a flood of sense pictures played through her consciousness. Her ravaged brain did not try to order or understand what unfolded there. She simply relived the images as they arose, overlapped, and as quickly faded.

A pile of leaves, dispersing in the wind, frustrating her raking. Burying underneath them, kicking and laughing. Squirrels scampering past, intent on winter stores. Watching her oxfords scuff through the piles while loitering on the way to school. Hearing the voices of her sisters calling her, urging her to hurry along. The leaves rustling in a satisfying way, and the driest brown ones crumbling easily when stomped. Bunches of Indian corn adorning the porches on her way, as do pumpkins in every size of blobby roundness, some carved, some not, some sagging with the soft rot of the long displayed jack-o-lantern.

A drift of golden yellow falling along the path between the dorms. Klaxon horns and excited shouts bursting from passing automobiles in an arm-waving frenzy of postgame high spirits. Hurrying her steps to catch up to the party. The first sight of him, tall and athletic, graceful in motion as he runs across the quad late for class. A kiss caught under a maple tree and another that lingers long enough for the whirligig seeds to helicopter to the ground. The funny Greek letters on his scratchy wool jacket where she lays her cheek between kisses and the sweet malty taste of beer on his breath. His hot panting and the race of her heart as his hands work under her sweater and skirt. An intoxication of fear and newfound lust exploding on her skin everywhere he touches, and the stretching surprise of his masculinity inside her.

The sweet warmth of hot cider, mulled with cinnamon and cloves. A caky doughnut dipped until about to disintegrate melting on her tongue. The frequent clamor of the doorbell and squealing "trick-or-treat"s that force her repeatedly to heave her ungainly girth from the too soft couch. The swollen protuberance of her belly, itself like a pumpkin hanging full in front of her, thumping with impatient life. The warm wet trickle down her thigh and the heavy ache starting to tighten across her back, early signs of a long night in labor. The streaked crimson purple sunsets seen through the window from the rocking chair, the beauty bringing her near tears, as she feels the tightness begin under her arms before the flow engorges her breasts. The soft purity of pudgy baby lips latched onto her fat nipple and the gurgling hiccups as the milk jets into that small suckling mouth.

A walk in the autumn woods, earth wet and loamy, leaves decaying in damp piles. A tiny hand clinging to hers as she measures her steps to the short paces. There is a fierce strength in that grip, despite the tenderness of the little fingers, and she feels whole by that connection. Climbing together into their tree with the wide, low hanging boughs to ride astride like crazy cowgirls, mother and daughter, inseparable companions.

Hands white with flour as she rolls out the pie crust, working fast to keep the dough light. Listening for the expected flurry of afterschool excitement, half in eager anticipation and half annoyance at the expected interruption of her baking. The wild hug engulfing her almost as soon as the door opens. "Pie! O Mommy, I love you, I love you, I love you!" An uninhibited joy soon distracted by milk and cinnamon toast and a musical stream of lilting childish chatter. A counter full of crumbs and dirty dishes and half-filled apple pies recalling her attention after that sparkling interlude, and the business of dinner taking over.

Firelit evenings in the post bedtime hush, his eyes intent and openly admiring. Pulled down on the carpet in the living room, giggling secretively, as his lips and fingers peel away her maternal camouflage and reveal the womanly passions that rock her unguarded moments. His strong solid flesh a bulwark for her needs that she washes against over and again, never eroding his intent to cherish and provide. His voice pervades her, a gravelly baritone giving easily into laughter, a constant conversation drawing her out, sharing each day.

The chill of frost. The crunch underfoot and the mist of blown breath. Trees' denuded branches scraping the pale sky as crow calls ring harsh in the cold air. The house full of asters and russet chrysanthemums. A devastating sense of loss choking her. She can't spill the hot tears that pound behind her eyes, her headache better than thought. A black coldness lurks under her sternum and sends its shooting pains to cripple her sleepless nights. She leans weakly into her daughter's embrace, and wonders how have those small arms grown into this strength?

The afternoon shadows lengthened in the courtyard and cast their shade over the bent old woman. She grew agitated and began to wring her hands repeatedly before they latched onto the solid metal of the ring on her left hand. Twisting it back and forth, she took comfort in that settling compulsion. As if by touching her ring, she determined that it was not lost, she was not lost, nothing was lost. She looked into the encroaching shade and heard again his voice within her mind. Her brain could no longer form an association between the ring and the man, but her fingers did, and their working it around her finger brought him back to her.

Just then her visitor arrived, a tall, stylish woman whose quick bright manners soon filled the courtyard with life. "Oh Mom! There you are! Why are you in the shade like this? Let's wheel you out here in the sun. There, now isn't that better? Look at that maple tree! Those colors are fabulous! It's just like the one we had in the backyard, with those deep reds and bright oranges. You like to look at that, don't you?" Her breathless chatter barely slowed. "There was a lot of traffic coming out here today, but I had to come. Today's my birthday, Mom. Our special day. I wanted to spend some time with you, and look! I brought you this picture of the woods by our old house. We can put it up on the wall in your room and you can see these flaming colors every day!"

The old woman peered up, lifting her head off her chest with notable effort. Her mouth worked noiselessly for almost a minute before a sound emerged. "BeeBee." One word, simple and clear. Her daughter sank down beside her and took both of her hands in her own. Tears glittered behind her eyelashes at the sound of that childhood nickname, so long unused she couldn't remember the last time she had heard it. "Yes, Mommy. It's BeeBee. I'm here with you. I love you, Mommy."

The old woman regarded the strange woman with the neat grey hair and warm, gently lined eyes. She felt the love pouring into her held hands and squeezed back, rhythmically, clinging to the soft warmth that flowed between them. This woman she knew would guide her through the confusion, part the shadows for her. She smelled of home. She would know how to bring her to the one whose voice called out from the vastness beyond the dark. She was the one to deliver her to that strong, abiding love. But not now. Not now. Now it was enough to sit together in the fading sunlight and hold her hand. There was still a glowing grace in the smoldering gold embers of this day, this year, this life.