Latin! So divinely pristine.
Balnea, vina, Venus corrumpunt corpora nostra;
sed vitam faciunt balnea, vina, Venus.
Baths, wine, the desire of women corrupt bodies of ours;
but vital-life is made of baths, wine, the desire of women.
- epitaph of Senator Tiberius Claudius Sacerdos Julianus, 2nd century AD.
Tuesday, March 12, 2019
Monday, March 11, 2019
CCXXVIII - Skydog
Excerpts (including interviews from the book, One Way Out, by Alan Paul):
Butch Trucks (groove drummer): One day we were jamming on a shuffle going nowhere so I started pulling back and Duane whipped around, looked me in the eyes, and played this lick way up the neck like a challenge. My first reaction was to back up, but he kept doing it, which had everyone looking at me like the whole flaccid nature of this jam was my fault. The third time I got really angry and started pounding the drums like I was hitting him upside the head and the jam took off and I forgot about being self-conscious and started playing music, and he smiled at me, as if to say, "Now that's more like it."
It was like he reached inside me and flipped a switch and I've never been insecure about my drumming again. It was an absolute epiphany; it hit me like a ton of bricks. I swear if that moment had not happened I would probably have spent the past thirty years as a teacher. Duane was capable of reaching inside people and pulling out the best. He made us all realise that music will never be great if everyone doesn't give it all they have, and we all took on that attitude: Why bother to play if you're not going all in?
Reese Wynans (keyboard player): Dickey [Betts] was the hottest guitar player in the area, the guy that everyone looked up to and wanted to emulate. Then Duane came and started sitting in with us and he was more mature and more fully formed, with total confidence, an incredible tone and that unearthly slide playing. But he and Dickey complemented each other - they didn't try to outgun one another - and the chemistry was obvious right away. It was just amazing that the two best lead guitarists around were teaming up. They were both willing to take chances rather than returning to parts they knew they could nail, and everything they tried worked.
Jai "Jaimoe" Johanny Johanson (fill drummer): Duane talked about a lot of guitar players and when I heard some of them I said, "That dude can't tote your guitar case," and he was surprised. He loved jamming with everyone.
Thom Doucette (harmonica player): None of them could hold Duane's case except Betts.
Gregg Allman (lead singer, keyboard player): I walked into rehearsal on March 26, 1969, and they played me the track they had worked up to Muddy Waters' "Trouble No More" and it blew me away. It was so intense.
I got my brother aside and said, "I don't know if I can cut this. I don't know if I can cut this. I don't know if I'm good enough." And he starts in on me: "You little punk, I told these people all about you and you don't come in here and let me down." Then I snatched the words out of his hand and said, "Count it off, let's do it." And with that, I did my damnedest. I'd never heard or sung this song before, but by God I did it. I shut my eyes and sang, and at the end of that there was just a long silence. At that moment we knew what we had. Duane kinda pissed me off and embarrassed me into singing my guts out. He knew which buttons to push.
Joseph "Red Dog" Campbell (roadie): He was my hero. I mean. I would have followed Duane to the end of the earth. I was older than him, but I respected him enough and loved him enough to do it. Duane had a sixth sense - or a seventh sense, man. He just knew what to do at the right time. There’s a fork in the road, right? If you go to the left, there’s a pot of gold. If you go to the right, you’re in a pile of crap. Duane could walk right up to the fork without thinking and say "Let’s go to the left." And he’d come out smelling like a rose.
But he was fair. He was honest. He was up front and didn’t beat around the bush. You didn’t have to hear “Well, you know ... I was thinkin’ ... It ain’t really nice for me to say it, but ...” You didn’t have to hear it. He’d just say, “Red Dog, you messed up bad man. We’re gonna have to let you go.” There wouldn’t be no beatin' around the bush. I try to live like that myself. I just don’t have the tactfulness or the position in life to deal the other way. So I just hit it, bam-bam-bam.
I don’t really think you can put it into words, on Duane. He used to say, “You guys do all the work. We just come over and have fun.” That’s really what it’s all about. If these musicians say “I’m out here working my butt off, something’s wrong.” I mean, if he ain’t out there playing and having fun, something’s wrong. It’s at the stage of the game now where it’s not work. It’s “Hey, let’s enjoy ourselves and play.” The roadie’s the guy who’s doing the work to get the thing going.
Jaimoe: One morning, Duane came over and knocked and he was bouncing off the wall - full of energy, as he always was, but more so. He said, "What's up, my little chocolate drop?" He often called me that.
I said, "Nothing. Just waiting around until it's time to practice." And he said, "You want one of these?" He had a little container of something that I thought were blackberries, which were a kind of speed we took with some regularity. I said I was all right and he laughed and said, "Okay," and dashed off on his bike.
I went over to the pad to use the commode and sitting on the back of it was a little bottle of those pills - anytime someone got a little something they stored it there so that if the police came it could be flushed away. I looked at them and thought, "This is what Duane had. The way he was bouncing around, I'm gonna give it a try," and I popped three of them. God damn! They were psilocybin tablets and they slowly came on. They were real natural and earthy and pleasant, but I should not have taken three.
We got something to eat at Mama Louise's and went to practice like we did every day, but rehearsal was a waste. It had to be canceled because we had all taken some of those things. Butch couldn't play the drums because he said they were flying away. Gregory wasn't really into psychedelics so maybe he didn't take any, but the rest of us were flying, so we just called off practice and the day finally came to what it should have been, hanging out. There's been a lot of stories told about how we had this incredible jam, but we couldn't even play.
Gregg: I had mainly played rhythm guitar. That was my instrument, but the Allman Brothers had too many guitars, so they blindfolded me, took me in this room, sat me down, took the blindfold off and there sat a brand-new, 1969 B-3 Hammond and a 122-RV Leslie, with a few joints on it, and they said, "OK, we'll see you in a few days! Good luck! We'll bring you food and check back with you now and then. Learn how to play this thing."
That's only a slight exaggeration. The truth is, my brother knew I really, deep down, always wanted a Hammond. I always admired them when I saw them with blues bands and whatnot. But then I stayed up day and night, hour after hour, learning how to really play it.
Dickey Betts (lead guitar): Duane and Gregg had a real "purist" blues things together, but Oakley and I in our band would take a standard blues and re-arrange it. We were really trying to push the envelope. We loved the blues, but we wanted to play in a rock style, like what Cream and Hendrix were doing. Jefferson Airplane was also a big influence on us; Phil Lesh and Jack Casady were Oakley's favourite bassists. We liked to take some of that experimental stuff and put a harder melodic edge to it.
Duane was smart enough to see what ingredients were missing from both of our previous bands. We didn't have enough of the true, purist blues, and he didn't have enough of the avant-garde, psychedelic approach to the blues. So he tried to put the two sounds together, and that was the first step in finding the sound of the Allman Brothers Band. When the two things collided, by the grace of God it was something special. You can't say someone conceived of it all. It just happened and we all played a big part.
Steve Morse (guitar player, Dixie Dregs): [It's] a Les Paul Custom with tiger stripes and a sunburst paint job. It doesn’t have a pickguard, and the neck looks like a regular Les Paul neck, a sort of dark brown. It was cracked once, but Twiggs [Lyndon, road manager] had it fixed when we were in California. And it’s got regular humbucking-looking pickups, but the one in the lead position is so intense! It’s so powerful. Something is so right about it. That’s the main thing about the guitar. I think the reason Duane had that guitar is because it would scream so much on the lead pickup. I remember Twiggs saying that Duane used that guitar on Layla and a lot of the Fillmore East. He liked to use it for songs where he’d switch from playing regular fingerstyle to slide. I’ve used the guitar for solos on every album, just about. You can hear it on the melody of ‘Cruise Control,’ the slide guitar parts in ‘Rock and Roll Park,’ and in ‘Twiggs Approved’ there are two short guitar solos – one is in a regular style and the other is slide, and both of those are on the Les Paul.
That guitar of Twiggs’ has gone through a long journey. Twiggs traded a car to Gregg Allman to obtain the guitar. Twiggs had a lot of old-time cars, in really good shape, and it was one of those. It wasn’t like Gregg was just giving the guitar away. He knew that Twiggs would really take care of it. At a time when Twiggs was really broke, someone offered him $15,000 for the guitar, and he wouldn’t take it. Twiggs all along was planning on giving it to Duane’s little daughter when she turned 18, so the family is holding the guitar until then. The reason Twiggs was gonna wait until then is he didn’t think that the girl would realize what she had. And Twiggs was just that kind of person – the principle of the whole thing was more important than anything.
Derek Trucks (guitar player, nephew of Butch Trucks): The sound is so distinct and powerful. There was definitely some extra spirit in the room. At one point, Butch looked down, saw I was playing Duane’s goldtop and was really struck.
Butch: It was during ‘Dreams,’ And seeing and hearing Derek play the solo on the guitar Duane used was very emotional.
Butch Trucks (groove drummer): One day we were jamming on a shuffle going nowhere so I started pulling back and Duane whipped around, looked me in the eyes, and played this lick way up the neck like a challenge. My first reaction was to back up, but he kept doing it, which had everyone looking at me like the whole flaccid nature of this jam was my fault. The third time I got really angry and started pounding the drums like I was hitting him upside the head and the jam took off and I forgot about being self-conscious and started playing music, and he smiled at me, as if to say, "Now that's more like it."
It was like he reached inside me and flipped a switch and I've never been insecure about my drumming again. It was an absolute epiphany; it hit me like a ton of bricks. I swear if that moment had not happened I would probably have spent the past thirty years as a teacher. Duane was capable of reaching inside people and pulling out the best. He made us all realise that music will never be great if everyone doesn't give it all they have, and we all took on that attitude: Why bother to play if you're not going all in?
Reese Wynans (keyboard player): Dickey [Betts] was the hottest guitar player in the area, the guy that everyone looked up to and wanted to emulate. Then Duane came and started sitting in with us and he was more mature and more fully formed, with total confidence, an incredible tone and that unearthly slide playing. But he and Dickey complemented each other - they didn't try to outgun one another - and the chemistry was obvious right away. It was just amazing that the two best lead guitarists around were teaming up. They were both willing to take chances rather than returning to parts they knew they could nail, and everything they tried worked.
Jai "Jaimoe" Johanny Johanson (fill drummer): Duane talked about a lot of guitar players and when I heard some of them I said, "That dude can't tote your guitar case," and he was surprised. He loved jamming with everyone.
Thom Doucette (harmonica player): None of them could hold Duane's case except Betts.
Gregg Allman (lead singer, keyboard player): I walked into rehearsal on March 26, 1969, and they played me the track they had worked up to Muddy Waters' "Trouble No More" and it blew me away. It was so intense.
I got my brother aside and said, "I don't know if I can cut this. I don't know if I can cut this. I don't know if I'm good enough." And he starts in on me: "You little punk, I told these people all about you and you don't come in here and let me down." Then I snatched the words out of his hand and said, "Count it off, let's do it." And with that, I did my damnedest. I'd never heard or sung this song before, but by God I did it. I shut my eyes and sang, and at the end of that there was just a long silence. At that moment we knew what we had. Duane kinda pissed me off and embarrassed me into singing my guts out. He knew which buttons to push.
Joseph "Red Dog" Campbell (roadie): He was my hero. I mean. I would have followed Duane to the end of the earth. I was older than him, but I respected him enough and loved him enough to do it. Duane had a sixth sense - or a seventh sense, man. He just knew what to do at the right time. There’s a fork in the road, right? If you go to the left, there’s a pot of gold. If you go to the right, you’re in a pile of crap. Duane could walk right up to the fork without thinking and say "Let’s go to the left." And he’d come out smelling like a rose.
But he was fair. He was honest. He was up front and didn’t beat around the bush. You didn’t have to hear “Well, you know ... I was thinkin’ ... It ain’t really nice for me to say it, but ...” You didn’t have to hear it. He’d just say, “Red Dog, you messed up bad man. We’re gonna have to let you go.” There wouldn’t be no beatin' around the bush. I try to live like that myself. I just don’t have the tactfulness or the position in life to deal the other way. So I just hit it, bam-bam-bam.
I don’t really think you can put it into words, on Duane. He used to say, “You guys do all the work. We just come over and have fun.” That’s really what it’s all about. If these musicians say “I’m out here working my butt off, something’s wrong.” I mean, if he ain’t out there playing and having fun, something’s wrong. It’s at the stage of the game now where it’s not work. It’s “Hey, let’s enjoy ourselves and play.” The roadie’s the guy who’s doing the work to get the thing going.
Jaimoe: One morning, Duane came over and knocked and he was bouncing off the wall - full of energy, as he always was, but more so. He said, "What's up, my little chocolate drop?" He often called me that.
I said, "Nothing. Just waiting around until it's time to practice." And he said, "You want one of these?" He had a little container of something that I thought were blackberries, which were a kind of speed we took with some regularity. I said I was all right and he laughed and said, "Okay," and dashed off on his bike.
I went over to the pad to use the commode and sitting on the back of it was a little bottle of those pills - anytime someone got a little something they stored it there so that if the police came it could be flushed away. I looked at them and thought, "This is what Duane had. The way he was bouncing around, I'm gonna give it a try," and I popped three of them. God damn! They were psilocybin tablets and they slowly came on. They were real natural and earthy and pleasant, but I should not have taken three.
We got something to eat at Mama Louise's and went to practice like we did every day, but rehearsal was a waste. It had to be canceled because we had all taken some of those things. Butch couldn't play the drums because he said they were flying away. Gregory wasn't really into psychedelics so maybe he didn't take any, but the rest of us were flying, so we just called off practice and the day finally came to what it should have been, hanging out. There's been a lot of stories told about how we had this incredible jam, but we couldn't even play.
Gregg: I had mainly played rhythm guitar. That was my instrument, but the Allman Brothers had too many guitars, so they blindfolded me, took me in this room, sat me down, took the blindfold off and there sat a brand-new, 1969 B-3 Hammond and a 122-RV Leslie, with a few joints on it, and they said, "OK, we'll see you in a few days! Good luck! We'll bring you food and check back with you now and then. Learn how to play this thing."
That's only a slight exaggeration. The truth is, my brother knew I really, deep down, always wanted a Hammond. I always admired them when I saw them with blues bands and whatnot. But then I stayed up day and night, hour after hour, learning how to really play it.
Dickey Betts (lead guitar): Duane and Gregg had a real "purist" blues things together, but Oakley and I in our band would take a standard blues and re-arrange it. We were really trying to push the envelope. We loved the blues, but we wanted to play in a rock style, like what Cream and Hendrix were doing. Jefferson Airplane was also a big influence on us; Phil Lesh and Jack Casady were Oakley's favourite bassists. We liked to take some of that experimental stuff and put a harder melodic edge to it.
Duane was smart enough to see what ingredients were missing from both of our previous bands. We didn't have enough of the true, purist blues, and he didn't have enough of the avant-garde, psychedelic approach to the blues. So he tried to put the two sounds together, and that was the first step in finding the sound of the Allman Brothers Band. When the two things collided, by the grace of God it was something special. You can't say someone conceived of it all. It just happened and we all played a big part.
Steve Morse (guitar player, Dixie Dregs): [It's] a Les Paul Custom with tiger stripes and a sunburst paint job. It doesn’t have a pickguard, and the neck looks like a regular Les Paul neck, a sort of dark brown. It was cracked once, but Twiggs [Lyndon, road manager] had it fixed when we were in California. And it’s got regular humbucking-looking pickups, but the one in the lead position is so intense! It’s so powerful. Something is so right about it. That’s the main thing about the guitar. I think the reason Duane had that guitar is because it would scream so much on the lead pickup. I remember Twiggs saying that Duane used that guitar on Layla and a lot of the Fillmore East. He liked to use it for songs where he’d switch from playing regular fingerstyle to slide. I’ve used the guitar for solos on every album, just about. You can hear it on the melody of ‘Cruise Control,’ the slide guitar parts in ‘Rock and Roll Park,’ and in ‘Twiggs Approved’ there are two short guitar solos – one is in a regular style and the other is slide, and both of those are on the Les Paul.
That guitar of Twiggs’ has gone through a long journey. Twiggs traded a car to Gregg Allman to obtain the guitar. Twiggs had a lot of old-time cars, in really good shape, and it was one of those. It wasn’t like Gregg was just giving the guitar away. He knew that Twiggs would really take care of it. At a time when Twiggs was really broke, someone offered him $15,000 for the guitar, and he wouldn’t take it. Twiggs all along was planning on giving it to Duane’s little daughter when she turned 18, so the family is holding the guitar until then. The reason Twiggs was gonna wait until then is he didn’t think that the girl would realize what she had. And Twiggs was just that kind of person – the principle of the whole thing was more important than anything.
Derek Trucks (guitar player, nephew of Butch Trucks): The sound is so distinct and powerful. There was definitely some extra spirit in the room. At one point, Butch looked down, saw I was playing Duane’s goldtop and was really struck.
Butch: It was during ‘Dreams,’ And seeing and hearing Derek play the solo on the guitar Duane used was very emotional.
Friday, March 1, 2019
CCXXVII - Day out in town
Got up early today in a little caravan park in Wanaka. It's a town about an hour's drive from Queenstown. Funny, seems like a few things are an hour's drive from Queenstown. Anyway yeah got up early today, had an egg and bacon pie. Microwaved it, too. Lot's of food today. Took a little walk in Wanaka, walked right into a little park by the lake. Gate led into an arch of lime trees from Berlin. Beautiful place, had lots of old trees, open grassy spaces, totally my thing. Quite a few nice homes around. It made me wonder whether it's expensive to own a place down there. Not of a lot of places do that for me.
Got a ride back down to Queenstown, had a gas station cheese and steak pie. Pretty good pie, but nothing like the ones from Mrs. Woolly's back in Glenorchy. That day I had two large pies in one sitting. Mince, and salmon and bacon. Real pastry, man, not a machine pat crust. Anyway, dumped the bags, made some coffee, thank God, and went up a little trail in town to do the zip lines. Great times on the lines, good speed, between the trees, looking at the lake. Met a couple of crazy women from Hawai'i. Kinda miss them already. Told them I didn't like Adele. Something in her voice I don't buy. Didn't go over well.
Anyway, that, then down to get a Big Al Fergburger. Double everything, pretty much. Pretty good, but for my money the Center 4 Hamburgers in Takayama was better. Better taste, more love, Japanese whiskey, can't quite put it in words. Devoured it watching a couple bands rock a little park with a stream. Pretty good for a garage band, actually. Some dad rock, no big deal.
Popped back home, little one and a half walk, for a shower and sunset photos. Raced back up to the gondola for a night time astronomy lesson. Hell, we caught the international space station tonight. Learnt the southern cross from alpha centauri. Had a couple hot chocolates on the way down, bought a five dollar pizza for breakfast tomorrow. Wine to wash the day away.
It feels like I did a fair bit today. Good weather, too, God willing. I'm happy. Got a little teary listening to the Man in Black on the way to town. Well, what can I say. Lovely day for it. Wouldn't be bad for a groundhog day. Alright. Time to be heading home.
Got a ride back down to Queenstown, had a gas station cheese and steak pie. Pretty good pie, but nothing like the ones from Mrs. Woolly's back in Glenorchy. That day I had two large pies in one sitting. Mince, and salmon and bacon. Real pastry, man, not a machine pat crust. Anyway, dumped the bags, made some coffee, thank God, and went up a little trail in town to do the zip lines. Great times on the lines, good speed, between the trees, looking at the lake. Met a couple of crazy women from Hawai'i. Kinda miss them already. Told them I didn't like Adele. Something in her voice I don't buy. Didn't go over well.
Anyway, that, then down to get a Big Al Fergburger. Double everything, pretty much. Pretty good, but for my money the Center 4 Hamburgers in Takayama was better. Better taste, more love, Japanese whiskey, can't quite put it in words. Devoured it watching a couple bands rock a little park with a stream. Pretty good for a garage band, actually. Some dad rock, no big deal.
Popped back home, little one and a half walk, for a shower and sunset photos. Raced back up to the gondola for a night time astronomy lesson. Hell, we caught the international space station tonight. Learnt the southern cross from alpha centauri. Had a couple hot chocolates on the way down, bought a five dollar pizza for breakfast tomorrow. Wine to wash the day away.
It feels like I did a fair bit today. Good weather, too, God willing. I'm happy. Got a little teary listening to the Man in Black on the way to town. Well, what can I say. Lovely day for it. Wouldn't be bad for a groundhog day. Alright. Time to be heading home.
Thursday, February 28, 2019
CCXXVI - Tramping
New Zealand is not a one trip country. Grayhair said that. You know, it's probably true. Tramping isn't easy, I'll be honest. I've carried loads of maybe twenty kilograms during the army days, but those were mostly route marches over pretty flat ground, easy trail. Of course we also had the navigation exercises with gun, pretty tough, outfield training and all that, but you know, it's a little bit different being out here in the cold and wet and crossing streams and going up and down. Well, the rolling stone gathers no moss. The fun thing is that it's exciting country. There's all kinds of terrain and texture. You slog through one and before you get too bored of one type, you get another to plow through. So there's that, a bit of variety. It's not bad. The dry food sucks though. I don't like it. I'll have to think of bringing something I can properly cook. Over a little butane propane stove haha. Well we'll see I guess.
New Zealand is not a one trip country. Singaporeans are rare, the warden says. We've run into seven, count 'em, seven Israelis on the trail. Six Germans. Not sure where that leaves us. But they were all friendly as the dickens, man. Grayhair from Yorkshire, been in Alaska thirty years. Probably seen a little for every gray hair he has. Good man, makes a mean Alaskan hot chocolate. An American, a sharp tool kinda guy. Him and the German girl met in a supermarket getting trail food, go figure. They all love their card games, Messaken, Shithead and Dutch. The Israelis teach you funny things. They say you get, what's the word, addicted to life on the trail. That's the funny one. He says he's been a year on the road, circled Israel, did two thousand in his boots. No kidding. The taller one, he's a good dude. Guffaws while playing his Dutch. It's funny how they're travelled and youthful at the same time. Kinda the opposite of us. Well, it is what it is. The hut murmurs with a constant stream of foreign tongues, in a gentle, breezy sort of way. We talk politics, science, work, health insurance, accidents, vegetables, nutrition, tough tramps, family. The vibe is chill and conversational, informative and sharp. Honest. Everybody has a story, and a good one. Their words and faces, their chortles and laughs linger for a few days, when the trail grows quiet. The people you meet on the trail, you kinda think you were meant to meet, and maybe only on the trail.
You know, they say New Zealand is not a one trip country. Socrates was right, life doesn't teach you things, it reminds you of things you already knew. I'm starting to believe them. The food, I've gotta work on, though. Well, I will. Not a one trip kinda town.
Walk along the river, sweet lullaby
They just keep on flowin', they don't worry 'bout where it's goin', no, no
Don't fly, mister blue bird, I'm just walkin' down the road
Early morning sunshine, tell me all I need to know
You're my blue sky, you're my sunny day
Lord, you know it makes me high
When you turn your love my way
Turn your love my way, yeah
Saturday, February 2, 2019
CCXXV - lost, forever
I would like to think of children as little "geniuses". That is perhaps, more than anything, the difference between the way I think of them, and how everyone usually thinks of them. Yes, they are foolish, but think of them as little marvelous wunderkinds. I say this because they have something wonderful which we do not have - they have a little imagination. And of course, being little, they do not have anything close to understanding. The precocious few may grasp experiences and concepts a little better, but without having really lived and truly aged, they cannot really place what they see in their minds.
Well, we on the other hand are hopelessly reversed. We have a little understanding, but we have almost no imagination. Perhaps none at all. On my part, I have forgotten more of my own imagining than I will ever learn elsewhere. And the thing is, while we can share understanding, while we can shape knowledge and concepts into pieces that even children can grasp, it is a silly thing to imagine that they can share their imagination with us.
The truth is that once old, the imagination is lost, forever. Our eyes see clearly in dimension - shape, size and colour - the mind takes clearly and almost literally, but together they do not intuitively conceive the strangeness of life, nor take curiosity at the mystery of existence and the motions of life, and the serendipitous and the bizarre that goes unnoticed. And will we ever again wonder if there is not some deeper magic behind the curtains, not some furtive elves and crafty hobgoblins at work, tinkering between the spaces, not some enchanted explanation for how little things putter along and big things balloon. Father Science gives experiential reason and persuades the rational mind; he puts to the sword all things hoodoo and hocus pocus, and takes by force the imagination to compel it into servitude. Forsooth, a bound imagination is merely one in name.
Well, we on the other hand are hopelessly reversed. We have a little understanding, but we have almost no imagination. Perhaps none at all. On my part, I have forgotten more of my own imagining than I will ever learn elsewhere. And the thing is, while we can share understanding, while we can shape knowledge and concepts into pieces that even children can grasp, it is a silly thing to imagine that they can share their imagination with us.
The truth is that once old, the imagination is lost, forever. Our eyes see clearly in dimension - shape, size and colour - the mind takes clearly and almost literally, but together they do not intuitively conceive the strangeness of life, nor take curiosity at the mystery of existence and the motions of life, and the serendipitous and the bizarre that goes unnoticed. And will we ever again wonder if there is not some deeper magic behind the curtains, not some furtive elves and crafty hobgoblins at work, tinkering between the spaces, not some enchanted explanation for how little things putter along and big things balloon. Father Science gives experiential reason and persuades the rational mind; he puts to the sword all things hoodoo and hocus pocus, and takes by force the imagination to compel it into servitude. Forsooth, a bound imagination is merely one in name.
“Alas! what are you, after all, my written and painted thoughts! Not long ago you were so variegated, young and malicious, so full of thorns and secret spices, that you made me sneeze and laugh — and now? You have already doffed your novelty, and some of you, I fear, are ready to become truths, so immortal do they look, so pathetically honest, so tedious! And was it ever otherwise? What then do we write and paint, we mandarins with Chinese brush, we immortalizers of things which lend themselves to writing, what are we alone capable of painting? Alas, only that which is just about to fade and begins to lose its odour! Alas, only exhausted and departing storms and belated yellow sentiments! Alas, only birds strayed and fatigued by flight, which now let themselves be captured with the hand — with our hand! We immortalize what cannot live and fly much longer, things only which are exhausted and mellow! And it is only for your afternoon, you, my written and painted thoughts, for which alone I have colours, many colours, perhaps, many variegated softenings, and fifty yellows and browns and greens and reds; — but nobody will divine thereby how ye looked in your morning, you sudden sparks and marvels of my solitude, you, my old, beloved — evil thoughts!”- Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil (1886)
Thursday, November 22, 2018
CCXXIV - describing Messi
I don't believe it is possible to describe Messi in a way which would do him justice. To be fair, it is not easy to do that for just about any thing at a deep enough philosophical level, but in Messi's case, I think you would pardon me for waxing just a little more so. Many have tried, at all levels, and to a man all admit failure, having come up with varying degrees of dumbness, shaking of heads, and hand, or hands, clasped to the skull. But after all, what is so difficult about describing one man, one left foot, and one ball, one field, one goal, one teammate after another? Well, the difficulty is that Manet also had one easel, Socrates, one voice, Newton, one apple, the Christ, one cross, etc. Let us perhaps say that Messi is super-phenomenal. I suspect it is easier to describe the ideal of a certain kind of football, exemplified by say the rondo that Barça practices, than it is to describe how Messi expresses his vision of football. That is itself an unbelievable statement, but it is true. Messi is simply bigger than a concept. Even by slow-motion video replay, it is impossible to re-capture what he senses, re-perceive what he sees, re-create what he creates. To be Messi. I do not believe anyone can even be said to be Messi-like.
The hilarious thing is that one's first impression of Messi, is like, oh, he's probably just a misplaced tourist, or a cook, or a tv-man, or something. They don't make statues out of little men, and this one's tiny - they once called him La Pulga, or The Flea. Oh, do not doubt it, Messi is hilarious - appalled laughter comes naturally to one ill-accustomed to watching him un-man, with contemptuous, consummate, consumptuous ease, other men. And these are grown men, first-rate defenders.
It may however do some justice to the idea of Messi to reproduce here a few of my favourite quotes about him:
Comment: This is impossible. This is true. Both statements are correct. Messi is the middle space in the diagram of two circles.
Comment: What Lowe means is that next to Messi, the ball is the smartest dog taking the sensiblest route with the steadiest feet and the softest nose and the slightest bark.
Comment: This is a self-evident truth, such as those Jefferson preferred: all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
Comment: This is a slight understatement - three-nil (which is probably closer to the truth) is not almost two-nil.
The hilarious thing is that one's first impression of Messi, is like, oh, he's probably just a misplaced tourist, or a cook, or a tv-man, or something. They don't make statues out of little men, and this one's tiny - they once called him La Pulga, or The Flea. Oh, do not doubt it, Messi is hilarious - appalled laughter comes naturally to one ill-accustomed to watching him un-man, with contemptuous, consummate, consumptuous ease, other men. And these are grown men, first-rate defenders.
It may however do some justice to the idea of Messi to reproduce here a few of my favourite quotes about him:
"Messi is the only player who runs faster with the ball than he does without it."- Jorge Valdano
Comment: This is impossible. This is true. Both statements are correct. Messi is the middle space in the diagram of two circles.
"The ball, to use the old cliché, really does seem to be tied to his feet. He doesn't even seem to kick it most of the time: like a faithful dog, it just runs alongside him."- Sid Lowe
Comment: What Lowe means is that next to Messi, the ball is the smartest dog taking the sensiblest route with the steadiest feet and the softest nose and the slightest bark.
"There's a special part of Messi's brain allowing him to see the split-second chaos of football in his own personal super slow motion."- Carles Puyol
Comment: This is a self-evident truth, such as those Jefferson preferred: all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
"We can talk for hours about schemes and organization. But games are won by players. If you have Messi you almost start 2-0 up."- Max Allegri
Comment: This is a slight understatement - three-nil (which is probably closer to the truth) is not almost two-nil.
Monday, November 5, 2018
CCXXIII - on reading
I have written here a little ode and quatrain to what reading is, because I find that not a lot of people like to do it anymore, or something along the lines of reading is just not a habit they take after much nowadays. Or they cannot put together the two mental bits of focus it takes to sit down and read a book. I think that's a terrific, shambolic, disdainful shame. I love, dreadfully love reading. I would not regret dying, but that I had not read all the books I would have. Well, this is what I mean when I say, reading.
What is it to read? I mean, what is it?
To read is to look at a written script and to recognise individual symbols which physically group up into collections which we call pictograms (when in spatial juxtaposition) or words (when linear), each pictogram or word representing an idea, however little, and ideas by themselves, or more commonly, when strung together in grammatical structure, forming meaningful pieces of information. We take the data, whether spartan 1s and 0s, or Chinese flowing calligraphy, and we have this little box in our minds which parses the bits, reconstruct the thought, re-orient the idea, and piece together the whole thing in the mind, constructing, conjuring, conceiving a living, growing, mental framework, this framework which sets not only the rules for perceiving ideas, but also rules for accommodating them in a coherent understanding. Then the lot is stored somewhere in the box, to re-surface sporadically if the brain can muster it. Thus we make sense of etchings. We read.
And then of course we ask, well, why do we read?
I think we read because we desire information. At its core, we think information is valuable. And very often, it is. For example, it is extremely valuable to know that a and b makes c, and along those lines we are able to pay our taxes. We read because it entertains us, to follow a tale or some sort of account. It is an interesting thing to ask why we even started writing in the first place, "we" as in the great Mediterranean sailors and traders, the Phoenicians (ancient men of Lebanon) - and it is probably because oral transmission, occult and intriguing as it doubtless is, is not a fair record of truth in the majority of circumstances. It is controversial, and not many can be expected to tell their version of the truth, at any good and proper extent, when things of value are involved. So we learnt to put the important things down. And to be useful, the things which are put down must somehow be able to come back up. So the power of visual symbols (and to a lesser extent, tactile symbols) became a bedrock, an organising force in reliable human communication.
Well, that is all very well and good, but how do choose what to read?
You will see that I am coming closer to the How and the How Should, but first let us deal with the What. The basic formula is simple enough - generally, we select what we read by determining and selecting only the information which in our estimation is worth more than the time and energy expended to obtain that information. But as all worth is relative, there are some general themes of value we adhere to. Science is perhaps the clearest example. With each bit of additional information, we refine theories to describe phenomena known to us, and to predict the results of real interactions. In our history it has generally been found that theoretical science is often able to provide practical science. Thus we map scientific knowledge, we better understand our ignorance, and we improve our conditions with technology - from agrarian reform to space travel. But the sublime, unscientific things are also valuable. The essences of human communication, body language, aural perception, emotional response, why, all sorts of things which must escape dry and quantifiable description, subjective experiences which cannot be placed in a court of scientific scrutiny, all these are intrinsically and exceeding valuable. We read what teaches us about the World and all that is in it.
Of course, at some point we will run out of juice. So we try and ask, well, given that I will surely get tired before I collect and parse all the relevant information, what can I choose which is material and which has good weight, and how can I best get the structure of the story before my eyes? So that my mind can fill in some of the blanks, be reguided by useful data points if I should conceptualise wrongly, and always suffer being led down strange and wonderful paths by pure prose, clear articulation and splendid script? And so we favour reading which from the start provides a nice map of things, a size of the forest before the trees, a coherent structure which intuitively leads one to try colouring within the lines, and at the same time gives breathing room to visualise new blends, new textures, new shapes. Then the reading must provide good evidence of its claims, core examples of what it is trying to say, to illustrate its principles. Thus, for example, Archimedes claims that with a long enough lever and a place to stand on, he can move the earth. As much as he was referring to the leverage a physical force has, calculated by reference to a fulcrum and a base, one naturally also grasps the concept of mental leverage, that a man with an idea, and good premises, can move the world.
And How do we read?
Well, comfortably! of course. It would be best to do so as a matter of habit and taste. There is no substitute for a good lounging deportment, a firm yet pliant resting seat, a warm, soothing beverage (not sweet), a light murmur in the background, nice, subtle smells of wood and brew, and a warm, cheerful, steady light. Style is inconsequential - nothing fashionable or required to be so can stand in the way of the pursuit of knowledge. It would be absolutely preferable to have a physical copy of the book, in as immaculate condition as possible, allowing for careful handling while reading through. There is nothing quite like holding a book, feeling its heft, admiring its proportions, and flipping the page. Thick or thin, all books are read the same way, one page at a time. And time, of course. One must ask for time, time above all else, and uninterrupted time even more so. It is an absolute necessity.
Yet How Should we read?
I was certainly hoping to get to this question, but it is of course necessary to have explained the more basic premises first. Come now, How Should we read? Well, in my view, it is quite necessary to accept the author on his or her own terms. Which is to say, to believe in good faith that the whole of the writing is meant to be taken as indeed a whole, from first to last, and in so doing it shall organically and purposively present its shape, flavour and texture to the reader. The reader must trust that the author is an intelligent man or woman who believes more or less wholeheartedly in the enterprise, the spur of writing that has produced, through trial and error, the written article that sits in your hands. The reader must grasp intuitively the motive force that the author is inspired by, and the voice with which the author instructs the reader to listen. Of course, there is no real, aural voice, so one must engage it in the creative imagination - a Speaker, whether avuncular or matronly, whether feverish or passionate, whether reserved or oblique, whether simple or minimalist, whether airily or haughtily, and whether cheekily or sardonically. It takes all kinds of styles to produce all kinds of works, and it does one no good to reject a piece because of the hue and colour it is styled with. The reader must take on the work as it stands, and subject it not merely to the cold light of day, but also to the warmth of gentle hands and an eager heart. Yes, the reader must learn to be sympathetic. For how else can the reader inhabit the world of the writer, and if that is not the aim of reading, then how little can the words capture the imagination! Yes, imagination. One must learn to read with, amongst all else, imagination. So do not let the words sit on the page in flat ink, no, they must stand, they must glide, they must soar in one's spirit. It does no good to one to simply read, no, one must equally reflect. So stew upon the words, ruminate upon the ideas, behold them in one's mind and recreate them in as good a light as one can, and then re-engage them, and scrutinise whether they stand up in logic, good sense, rationality, keen spirit, and prescient illumination.
Oh, this is all very high and mighty, and perhaps not every book will permit themselves to be so revealed. Yes, there are difficult works, confusing works, craggy and unscalable works. These of more erudite boffinry tend to snuff out the joy that follows the reader through more confident navigations. Well, to be perfectly honest, sometimes it takes time, and a little assistance. The reader should learn to recognise when it is happening before it wrings him or her out entire, and resist the temptation to quit, instead he or she may re-gather his or her wits and circle around for an easier sally. It is no good forcing one's way through linearly if all the words begin to pile up and hardly add to the register. Take if necessary a heuristic from someone who has already some sense of the work - but seriously take care not to rely wholly on another's view, for it is the mental pathways one creates, whether rightly or wrongly, which are the most valuable. Yes, whether rightly or wrongly, use and trust in that world building tool you have between your ears!
Where does the serious reader look to read?
I should dearly like to say, why, towards everything he or she wants dearly to read! But of course that is a long and tremendous journey that he or she must begin with his or her own hands. First and foremost I should think the serious reader should eschew light and frivolous writing, things absolutely unessential. I do not mean things mainly composed in humor, jest or troll - there is usually much sense in that, a kernel of truth in every exaggeration. Well, perhaps there is a case for light reading, something to while away idle, fleeting, abbreviated time, to set the mind at ease with some drivel. Other than that, which I should like to permit only as leisurely garden-variety entertainment, the reader must try to bring always a good physical copy of a book with him or her. Now, as a general guide, the older (or more prestigious) the field, and the more authoritative the author, the more is a book to be treasured. But take a little bit from all, the best bits if you can, and it will surprise you how much it all adds together, how wonderfully the threads run through history, how satisfyingly one can meld together the depth and extent of human understanding. Start with philosophy. Then read science. Fall in love with history. Cherish Latin American literature, embrace it with all your heart. Marvel over the illustrated novel, the parallels with mythology leap out of the page. Devour the sports writing. Dive into the exquisite world of Chinese literature, the wisdom of Chinese philosophy. Visit for the first time the local authors, and wonder at all that so much has been neglected. Select eclectically, choose from recommended lists, and listen to the passion rise in your friends' mouths as they speak about the books they read. Finally, as Jiminy Cricket would say, Always let your conscience be your guide.
What is it to read? I mean, what is it?
To read is to look at a written script and to recognise individual symbols which physically group up into collections which we call pictograms (when in spatial juxtaposition) or words (when linear), each pictogram or word representing an idea, however little, and ideas by themselves, or more commonly, when strung together in grammatical structure, forming meaningful pieces of information. We take the data, whether spartan 1s and 0s, or Chinese flowing calligraphy, and we have this little box in our minds which parses the bits, reconstruct the thought, re-orient the idea, and piece together the whole thing in the mind, constructing, conjuring, conceiving a living, growing, mental framework, this framework which sets not only the rules for perceiving ideas, but also rules for accommodating them in a coherent understanding. Then the lot is stored somewhere in the box, to re-surface sporadically if the brain can muster it. Thus we make sense of etchings. We read.
And then of course we ask, well, why do we read?
I think we read because we desire information. At its core, we think information is valuable. And very often, it is. For example, it is extremely valuable to know that a and b makes c, and along those lines we are able to pay our taxes. We read because it entertains us, to follow a tale or some sort of account. It is an interesting thing to ask why we even started writing in the first place, "we" as in the great Mediterranean sailors and traders, the Phoenicians (ancient men of Lebanon) - and it is probably because oral transmission, occult and intriguing as it doubtless is, is not a fair record of truth in the majority of circumstances. It is controversial, and not many can be expected to tell their version of the truth, at any good and proper extent, when things of value are involved. So we learnt to put the important things down. And to be useful, the things which are put down must somehow be able to come back up. So the power of visual symbols (and to a lesser extent, tactile symbols) became a bedrock, an organising force in reliable human communication.
Well, that is all very well and good, but how do choose what to read?
You will see that I am coming closer to the How and the How Should, but first let us deal with the What. The basic formula is simple enough - generally, we select what we read by determining and selecting only the information which in our estimation is worth more than the time and energy expended to obtain that information. But as all worth is relative, there are some general themes of value we adhere to. Science is perhaps the clearest example. With each bit of additional information, we refine theories to describe phenomena known to us, and to predict the results of real interactions. In our history it has generally been found that theoretical science is often able to provide practical science. Thus we map scientific knowledge, we better understand our ignorance, and we improve our conditions with technology - from agrarian reform to space travel. But the sublime, unscientific things are also valuable. The essences of human communication, body language, aural perception, emotional response, why, all sorts of things which must escape dry and quantifiable description, subjective experiences which cannot be placed in a court of scientific scrutiny, all these are intrinsically and exceeding valuable. We read what teaches us about the World and all that is in it.
Of course, at some point we will run out of juice. So we try and ask, well, given that I will surely get tired before I collect and parse all the relevant information, what can I choose which is material and which has good weight, and how can I best get the structure of the story before my eyes? So that my mind can fill in some of the blanks, be reguided by useful data points if I should conceptualise wrongly, and always suffer being led down strange and wonderful paths by pure prose, clear articulation and splendid script? And so we favour reading which from the start provides a nice map of things, a size of the forest before the trees, a coherent structure which intuitively leads one to try colouring within the lines, and at the same time gives breathing room to visualise new blends, new textures, new shapes. Then the reading must provide good evidence of its claims, core examples of what it is trying to say, to illustrate its principles. Thus, for example, Archimedes claims that with a long enough lever and a place to stand on, he can move the earth. As much as he was referring to the leverage a physical force has, calculated by reference to a fulcrum and a base, one naturally also grasps the concept of mental leverage, that a man with an idea, and good premises, can move the world.
And How do we read?
Well, comfortably! of course. It would be best to do so as a matter of habit and taste. There is no substitute for a good lounging deportment, a firm yet pliant resting seat, a warm, soothing beverage (not sweet), a light murmur in the background, nice, subtle smells of wood and brew, and a warm, cheerful, steady light. Style is inconsequential - nothing fashionable or required to be so can stand in the way of the pursuit of knowledge. It would be absolutely preferable to have a physical copy of the book, in as immaculate condition as possible, allowing for careful handling while reading through. There is nothing quite like holding a book, feeling its heft, admiring its proportions, and flipping the page. Thick or thin, all books are read the same way, one page at a time. And time, of course. One must ask for time, time above all else, and uninterrupted time even more so. It is an absolute necessity.
Yet How Should we read?
I was certainly hoping to get to this question, but it is of course necessary to have explained the more basic premises first. Come now, How Should we read? Well, in my view, it is quite necessary to accept the author on his or her own terms. Which is to say, to believe in good faith that the whole of the writing is meant to be taken as indeed a whole, from first to last, and in so doing it shall organically and purposively present its shape, flavour and texture to the reader. The reader must trust that the author is an intelligent man or woman who believes more or less wholeheartedly in the enterprise, the spur of writing that has produced, through trial and error, the written article that sits in your hands. The reader must grasp intuitively the motive force that the author is inspired by, and the voice with which the author instructs the reader to listen. Of course, there is no real, aural voice, so one must engage it in the creative imagination - a Speaker, whether avuncular or matronly, whether feverish or passionate, whether reserved or oblique, whether simple or minimalist, whether airily or haughtily, and whether cheekily or sardonically. It takes all kinds of styles to produce all kinds of works, and it does one no good to reject a piece because of the hue and colour it is styled with. The reader must take on the work as it stands, and subject it not merely to the cold light of day, but also to the warmth of gentle hands and an eager heart. Yes, the reader must learn to be sympathetic. For how else can the reader inhabit the world of the writer, and if that is not the aim of reading, then how little can the words capture the imagination! Yes, imagination. One must learn to read with, amongst all else, imagination. So do not let the words sit on the page in flat ink, no, they must stand, they must glide, they must soar in one's spirit. It does no good to one to simply read, no, one must equally reflect. So stew upon the words, ruminate upon the ideas, behold them in one's mind and recreate them in as good a light as one can, and then re-engage them, and scrutinise whether they stand up in logic, good sense, rationality, keen spirit, and prescient illumination.
Oh, this is all very high and mighty, and perhaps not every book will permit themselves to be so revealed. Yes, there are difficult works, confusing works, craggy and unscalable works. These of more erudite boffinry tend to snuff out the joy that follows the reader through more confident navigations. Well, to be perfectly honest, sometimes it takes time, and a little assistance. The reader should learn to recognise when it is happening before it wrings him or her out entire, and resist the temptation to quit, instead he or she may re-gather his or her wits and circle around for an easier sally. It is no good forcing one's way through linearly if all the words begin to pile up and hardly add to the register. Take if necessary a heuristic from someone who has already some sense of the work - but seriously take care not to rely wholly on another's view, for it is the mental pathways one creates, whether rightly or wrongly, which are the most valuable. Yes, whether rightly or wrongly, use and trust in that world building tool you have between your ears!
Where does the serious reader look to read?
I should dearly like to say, why, towards everything he or she wants dearly to read! But of course that is a long and tremendous journey that he or she must begin with his or her own hands. First and foremost I should think the serious reader should eschew light and frivolous writing, things absolutely unessential. I do not mean things mainly composed in humor, jest or troll - there is usually much sense in that, a kernel of truth in every exaggeration. Well, perhaps there is a case for light reading, something to while away idle, fleeting, abbreviated time, to set the mind at ease with some drivel. Other than that, which I should like to permit only as leisurely garden-variety entertainment, the reader must try to bring always a good physical copy of a book with him or her. Now, as a general guide, the older (or more prestigious) the field, and the more authoritative the author, the more is a book to be treasured. But take a little bit from all, the best bits if you can, and it will surprise you how much it all adds together, how wonderfully the threads run through history, how satisfyingly one can meld together the depth and extent of human understanding. Start with philosophy. Then read science. Fall in love with history. Cherish Latin American literature, embrace it with all your heart. Marvel over the illustrated novel, the parallels with mythology leap out of the page. Devour the sports writing. Dive into the exquisite world of Chinese literature, the wisdom of Chinese philosophy. Visit for the first time the local authors, and wonder at all that so much has been neglected. Select eclectically, choose from recommended lists, and listen to the passion rise in your friends' mouths as they speak about the books they read. Finally, as Jiminy Cricket would say, Always let your conscience be your guide.
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