the world is a beautiful place, small though

From Carl Sagan:

Look again at that dot. That’s here. That’s home. That’s us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every “superstar,” every “supreme leader,” every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there – on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner, how frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds.

Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the Universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves.

The Earth is the only world known so far to harbor life. There is nowhere else, at least in the near future, to which our species could migrate. Visit, yes. Settle, not yet. Like it or not, for the moment the Earth is where we make our stand.

It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we’ve ever known.

via in evolution

vignettes: the little things that make new york great

or Breakfast of Champions

The Bushwick Book Club meets monthly at Goodbye Blue Monday, a bar filled to bursting with transistor radios, mannequins, old televisions and tightly packed bookshelves. All of it for sale. Each month the club chooses a book to read and then write songs about it. Just my luck, this month was Darwin’s Origin of the Species. So as I sit with my date Grazia, a lovely Italian scientist, we giggle at a show tune about deviation in pigeons and a singalong with the chorus “Darwin doesn’t give a shit about your band.”

**********

As I ride around the city, I forget that I’m not a messenger as I shoot the gaps and push like hell. I focus on the rush and miss the scenery. I stop outside St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral, a sedate dragon of red granite with services in Chinese, Spanish and English. I try to enter for a look around but find the door locked. The caretaker lets me into the basement to see the show of sacred art: gold plated saints and virgins, engrossing carvings of cherubic faces. The artist converses with a hawkish old man dressed in black, slight but straight backed and proud, who says, “We’ll take those devils tonight. God help us, the Phillies don’t stand a chance!”

The artist replies, “Yes Father.”

**********

I’ve liked Peculiar Works theater company ever since I volunteered for their tribute to the beginning of Off-Off-Broadway: a walking show through the Village with classic vignettes performed on the bustling city streets. I end up standing next to a bed on the sidewalk along 8th Avenue. The audience walks up following the narrator as the gay couple on the bed wakes up after a night of partying. As they begin to fight, I use a rope to slowly pull the rolling bed down the sidewalk as the scene progresses. At the end of the block, the couple quiets and goes back to sleep. The narrator leads the audience to the next piece. Once gone, the actors jump out of bed and change wildly for their next scene a few blocks away. I pull the bed back to position and pop around the corner to a warm old bottle store with a jolly fat man who always recommends a good beer. I lay in my bed under the streetlight savoring the beer and watching the people go by. Nobody notices me. It takes more then a bed to get their attention.

I helped again at their latest production: At This Site – ten short pieces performed at the Whole Foods on Bowery by drama students from Trinity College. Despite a song and dance number in the candy department, a bombastic preacher delivering an elegy to strawberry preserves with baptisms in jelly and a sultry flapper dancing on the stairs above the store, barely a handful of the lower east siders gave any attention to the performance in their midst. A year away from the city made me forget the difficulty of capturing the notice of these aloof urban dwellers. One girl finally got them. She stripped to her bikini in the middle of the store, donned a pair of black angel wings and started singing to the audience above her about the cursed deliciousness of  fattening oreos. That’s what it took to finally get some attention: a half-naked girl singing about cookies.

**********

Assorted money quotes (unsourced to protect the innocent):

“do you know what it’s like to not be able to control your shit while working as a go-go dancer?”

“And that’s how you apply the Heisenberg uncertainty principle to nipples.”

crowdsourcing a tattoo

I practice a disorganized religion. I belong to an unholy disorder. We call ourselves “Our Lady of Perpetual Astonishment.” – Vonnegut

I’ve been mulling over this tattoo for a few years now and I believe it’s nearing fruition. I’d like to ask for input from all of you especially the scientists and artists in the crowd.

The general idea is the beauty of the universe from the subatomic to the galactic. I’m fairly happy with the individual images shown below although I’m open to suggestion. More importantly, I don’t know how to pull all of them together. It’s going to be a large, black ink only and running from just below my armpit to above my knee. The best idea I have for pulling everything together is a tree. It’s not a bad idea and it would allow me to put the names of favorite scientists in the leaves but I have a feeling that there is something better out there. Any ideas on how to create a cohesive whole would be most appreciated.

Here are the individual images.

for the subatomic, a feynman diagram of a quark-quark interaction (lower left), a fitting tribute to one of my favorite scientists:

for the atomic level:

wordpress does terrible at formatting text and images so the complete list of explanation will be here followed by the images:

molecular level:  the structure of a nucleotide and amino acid, two of the basic building blocks of life on earth and a classic animal cell:

cell: the bottom of the nucleotide will blend into a classic image of an animal cell

organism: next will be an ant, the pinnacle of evolution

ecosystem: darwin’s original tree of life will branch off the ant

planet: a classic shot earth

galactic: fades into blackwork (all black) around my lower thigh with the stars left uninked

The Autodidact

All of a sudden the names of the last authors whose work the Autodidact has consulted come back to my mind: Lambert, Langlois, Larbalétrier, Lastex, Lavergne. It is a revelation; I have understood the Autodidact’s method: he is teaching himself in alphabetical order.

I contemplate him with a sort of admiration. What willpower he must have to carry out, slowly, stubbornly, a plan on such a vast scale! One day, seven years ago (he told me once that he had been studying for seven years) he came ceremoniously into this reading room. He looked round at the countless books lining the walls, and he must have said rather like Rastignac: ‘It is between the two of us, Human Knowledge.’  Then he went and took the first book from the first shelf on the far right; he opened it at the first page, with a feeling of respect and fear combined with unshakeable determination. Today he has reached L. K after J. L after K. He has passed abruptly from the study of coleopterae to that of the quantum theory, from a work on Tamerlane to a Catholic pamphlet against Darwinism: not for a moment has he been put off stride. He has read everything; he has stored it away in his head half of what is known about parthenogenesis, half the arguments against vivisection. Behind him, before him, there is a universe. And the day approaches when, closing the last book on the last shelf on the far left, he will say to himself: ‘And now what?’

-         Nausea by Jean-Paul Sartre

The Autodidact meets me at the train station and launches directly into deep discussion. He laments that we only have one day together for such important conversations. Over a brunch of pho, he begins with the main principles for living in order of importance: charity to all, love for family, education and leadership. He strived to instill these values in his son and daughter because “compassion you have to train. It’s not big suddenly.”

He sits across from me in a rumpled ill-fitting suit, talking animatedly about his research. For the last 34 years, the Autodidact privately studied up to a PhD level in six humanities and six sciences – physics, math, cosmology, biology, psychology, psychiatry, politics, law, business, society and philosophy. Thousands of books fills his home and he laughs, “I fear an earthquake. I might die in books.” He synthesizes this knowledge into his magnum opus: a dissertation on governance which already fills several large volumes. The work visibly excites him, “I think of these things day and night.”

I met him through his daughter, Uyen, a brightly shining star herself. The Autodidact speaks of his children with love and the doting of a parent who raised two compassionate intelligent people. As children, he made sure they spent time in prayer each morning in their Buddhist shrine. His son matured into the charismatic president of his college class and his daughter recently received an award for charity at medical school. Within a few years, there will be three doctors in the family and when Uyen receives her MD, the father and daughter will become a paradox (say it out loud. This is one of my favorite jokes but I’ve only been able to use it three times since I stole it from Heinlein in the seventh grade).

With the help of his children, the Autodidact plans to start a charity focused on relieving poverty in his former home of Vietnam. As a young man, he fled the communists and does not hide his antipathy to the dogma. “Karl Marx is intellectually a bum although very interdisciplinary.” When the Autodidact came to America as a refugee, he dropped his surname of Nguyen because it was also the name of the recently deposed dynasty of Vietnam who mistreated a national hero. With a proud smile, “I became Quang-Dang which means Space-Time in Vietnamese.” He embodies the American Dream: after a PhD in law, he made his money in real estate and now devotes himself to helping the human race.

“I don’t think Regan had a mind. We don’t train leaders which is the hardest job. Most leaders are lawyers but that’s not good. They don’t teach you economics. I studied law here and it’s easy. It’s so shallow. It’s just applying rules. There’s no depthful thought. Plato said you can’t be a leader until you’re 50. I have devised a training program for these leaders during that time.” He spent twenty years as an adviser to the president of Vietnam and now holds a weekly meeting with local men to hone his ideas.

Sometimes he recites a great truth in Vietnamese first and then translates: “I think therefore I am.” Because of our accents, we cannot understand each on a name like Nietzsche so I write it on a napkin. He grins knowingly. “He’s unbalanced, smart but dangerous because he pushes for superhuman but doesn’t stress charity and compassion.” He displays an easy familiarity with the great thinkers, summing them up succinctly. “When you read Kant, you swim in an ocean with no posts. It’s never practical. Too abstract.”

“The only absolute is that there are no absolutes.” We’re drinking coffee at Barnes and Nobles now after a stop at Vietnamese grocery store where he loaded me down with food I’ve never seen. He tells me about Buddhism and the six levels of existence from gods to ghosts and that it takes at least 84,000 lives for a soul to reach the level of humanity. He tells me mystical tales from his life and mentions his belief that Jesus spent fifteen years in India learning the Dharma. “I think if I meditate one million days, something might happen.”

We end our visit with an early dinner at a Vietnamese steak house. “Your purpose of life is fulfillment of capacity. Your purpose in life you have to choose. If you’re a great man, you change humankind, if you’re a small mind, you change your community or state. If you follow what I say, you will settle and put your energy to something useful.” I’ve heard that advice frequently from wise older men but I can’t seem to fight the call of the open road. He ends, “Next time we will talk on reality. It is real but not real.”

tailgating is decadent and depraved or: fear and loathing on the bayou (thanks twitch)

the LSU tigers versus the lafayette ragin’ cajuns

It’s a cult with all the trimmings: one hundred thousand purple and gold fanatics, children with war paint and tiny cheerleading outfits and the true sign of any cult: french poodles with LSU shaved into them. Taunts of “tiger bait, tiger bait” followed the red shirts of the cajun fans. The purple and golds flooded around the stadium, tents in every nook of the campus with flatscreen TVs, tables sagging with food and a crowd I found less obese than expected but also less attractive. However, I tend to react negatively to anything involving crowds or large followings. As Groucho said, “I’d never be in any club that would have someone like me as a member.”

I spent the day with fascinating people watching and bathing in southern hospitality. I got the invite from my buddy Bacque, a southern gentleman I lived with during my semester in dresden. His friend Nick introduced me to the glory of boudin pizza, the joy of sitting in the middle of campus all day drinking beer and watching football and the pleasure of a gigantic fireball that accompanies throwing a pound of frozen chicken wigs in bubbling hot grease. But the game started and hours of drinking had taken its toll. I was tired and left on my own because a: I didn’t have a ticket b: I didn’t particularly want to be in a stadium with 90,000 people and c: I had a visitor coming to NOLA the next day so I wanted to get home that night.

I missed the last five dollar bus from Baton Rogue to New Orleans so I began the few mile walk to Rt 10 with my thumb out, not really expecting a ride from the damn college kids. Most people my age pass with guilty looks and dull blank fish stares. And don’t even get me started about when I get passed up by hippy kids in old VW buses. Damn posers. This time, I only got a few jeers from passing drunks but more gave me a thumbs up from loud cars of cheering fans. Lo and behold, I broke a record: the first woman to ever pick me up alone in the States. And she was from Pittsburgh. And she was a scientist. She saved me the few mile walk to the highway dropping me off at a nice little rise with good visibility. I only stuck out my thumb for ten minutes before a cute rainbow couple picked me up on their way down to NOLA to work at the Superdome for a Creed show and to attend a wedding in Armstrong Park. We stopped at Target to dumpster dive for wedding food and came up with a great collection of chocolate and fruit. The hour long drive flew past as they talked about living off the fat of the land surrounding the LSU campus, jail time in Florida and driving their convoy of buses to regional rainbow gatherings around the country.

We stopped at an artist’s space in a warehouse to meet up with their friends, more dropouts from the american dream (my own neologism for the many of my generation existing on the fringe of life). This crust punk looking bunch brought some great dogs and I spent most of my time trying to make them like me. Apparently, it’s a ton of paperwork to arrest someone with a dog so it’s a nice protection for kids like this who tend to get harassed on sight. Most of the rainbow kids I know with dogs acquired them because they found them homeless in an abandoned part of town or along the highway. I often hear people feeling sorry for these dogs who live the vagrant life style with these masters but they get more love and attention than any dog who spends most of his life alone in an apartment. If I was a dog, the only thing better than a life of freedom and travel with a rainbow kid would be living on a farm with a pack of my own.

They dropped me at the Superdome and I slowly walked to the ferry, singing along to John Lennon, feeling tired and happy. On the other side of the river, I walk by a group sitting on their front porch singing an old timey song. I stop to listen and when the song ends, I get invited inside for pork, potatoes and rum. I request House of the Rising Son and while I listen to a haunting rendition, I feed the dog most of my meat, making a new friend. I listen to good music for an hour, meet people excited about doing work that they believe in and then I go home to fall asleep reading the stories of Sholem Aleichem. A good day.

Yiddish Literary Fakt Corner (lovingly stolen from wikipedia):

Sholem Aleichem, an extremely popular Yiddish satirist and humorist, was known as the Jewish Mark Twain. However, when they met later in life, Mark Twain referred to himself as the “Sholem Aleichem of America.” He possessed a morbid fear of the number 13 and his headstone carries the date of his death as “May 12a, 1916″. His will contained detailed instructions to his family and friends; both in regards to immediate burial arrangements as well as to how he wished to be commemorated and remembered on his annual yartzheit. He told his friends and family to gather, “read my will, and also select one of my stories, one of the very merry ones, and recite it in whatever language is most intelligible to you.” “Let my name be recalled with laughter,” he added, “or not at all”.

words of wisdom

my favorite advice of this hitch came from george the professional hitchhiker. he held my handshake a second longer, looked me in the eyes and said slowly and sincerely, “hey man, enjoy your life.” i’ll try.

I’ve been havin’ some hard travelin’, I thought you knowed

burning man (will never try to describe, too much for words, just go, watch out for narc lesbians though) –> 30 hour drive to henderson, ky with me pulling the two graveyard shifts –> showering, swimming, smoking, drinking –> sunrise on I-64 with thumb out –> sunset on 1-64 ten miles down the road –> beers, football and locals to raise spirits –> bed down behind a barn with dreams of the freedom of a motorcycle –> sunrise on the road –> sal paradise leaves me with grateful dead stories, tales of a life on the road and a homemade sausage biscuit –> kindly baptist family with convoy of lesbian daughter + butchy girlfriend with tat of stewie + their bewitching new baby girl + even more beguiling pit bull + surprisingly not obnoxious rat dog –> hotel outside jackson where they offered to get me a room but i opted for a night under the stars

The road gods giveth and the road gods taketh away. Fuck the road gods. Glorious bastards.

PS: originally to s who brings out the closest i get to poetry

PPS: subject is title of one of my favorite woody guthrie songs

where the hell is matt?

This brings tears of joy to my eyes. I need to come up with an idea like this. As a fellow terrible dancer, I’m sorry he scooped me on this one. Hopefully I’ll be traveling again soon if anybody has any ideas.

I know this is old in internet age but I found it on youshaveseenthis.

this always brings tears to my eyes

Victor Laszlo leads a singing of the french national anthem to drown out the occupying germans in Casablanca:

I would put my balls in a bear trap to get a look like that from Ingrid Bergman but that probably goes without saying.

the last prayer

Ferlinghetti’s poem from the Last Waltz:

Watched on the movie theater in Cam’s basement. Perfect spot to experience a rockumentary.