t. whitten

2012-01-25T18:45:00.000-08:00

Author Madeleine L'Engle once wondered that

"[People have] dreams and inner conversations which [are] just as real as mine

and which [do] not include me."

Isn't that true.

Isn't that odd.

Crowds, concerts, cafes, classrooms.

These places are now a soaking sponge of thoughts to me--

of dreams and dreads and honest conversations that I cannot hear.

They are a narrative palimpsest that never ends, and may often repeat.

They are so many voices. And so many stories.

Isn't it true that we can be close physically

but never so far apart as in our thoughts?

Are we not more inside than outside ourselves most of the time?

Are we not more conscious and contemplative of the voices within than around us?

Perhaps.

There is a beauty and a danger in all of this, however,

for both worlds (the inside and out; the present and imagined) are equally real.

Cities and Desire

By: Italo Calvino

In the center of Fedora, that gray stone metropolis, stands a metal building with a crystal globe in every room. Looking into each globe, you see a blue city, the model of a different Fedora. These are the forms the city could have taken if, for one reason or another, it had not become what we see today. In every age someone, looking at Fedora as it was, imagined a way of making the ideal city, but while he constructed his miniature model, Fedora was already no longer the same as before, and what had been until yesterday a possible future became only a toy in a glass globe.

The building with the globes is now Fedora's museum: every inhabitant visits it, chooses the city that corresponds to his desires, contemplates it, imagining his reflection in the medusa pond that would have collected the waters of the canal (if it had not been dried up), the view from the high canopied box along the avenue reserved for elephants (now banished from the city), the fun of sliding down the spiral twisting minaret (which never found a pedestal from which to rise).

On the map of your empire, O Great Khan, there must be room both for the big, stone Fedora and the little Fedoras in glass globes. Not because they are all equally real, but because all are only assumptions. The one contains what is accepted as necessary when it is not yet so; the others, what is imagined as possible and, a moment later, is possible no longer.

If we are not careful, we can spend so much time building the world of our dreams

that we miss the world around us.

And if we are not careful, we can watch the world around us so intently

that we never enjoy the dream to make it better.

"There must be room both for....Fedora and the...Fedoras in glass globes."

2012-01-23T20:08:00.000-08:00

I found a scrap of paper in my backpack today. Something I wrote whilst alone in a big wide phase of life. I seem to have been in the niche of history's repeating, but I don't mind. That my thought had visited others before me just made it more admirable and me more human.

Me, 2011 Oxford, United Kingdom :

I sat today behind a cafe window and watched the city that I love move.

The souls inside of it, that I do not know, wandered in many directions, as do the wills and wanders of my own heart. A part of everyone of those souls lives in me. A part of us all lives in this city. A part of us all lives in each one of us. We are everyone.

Earnest Hemingway, 1940, NYC, United States :

No man is an island, entire of itself ... Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

Kahlil Gibran, 1934, Boston, United States (via Lebanon) :

My soul spoke and revealed unto me that I am not bound in space by the words:

"here, there, and over there."

Hitherto I stood upon my hill, and every other hill seemed distant and far away;

But now I know that the hill whereon I dwell is indeed all hills,

And the valley whereunto I descend comprehends all valleys.

Ad infinitum, semper, ubique...

Other examples are welcome in comments

Logic in our Lies

2012-01-15T15:53:00.000-08:00

do not read unless you like philosophy, and logic, and too much talking on a simple subject....

oclig

some of my thoughts from, around, and on logic:

i like to play with my words. because they are unsettled. because they are alive with meaning and change of meaning. it's hard to trust them because so much of what they are depends on who is speaking them, when they are spoken, and how they're placed in space relative to their fellows.

the panda eats shoots and leaves.the panda eats, shoots, and leaves.

(thank you ms. truss)

Definition

logical: assuming the premises of an argument are true, the conclusion cannot possible be false

anyone who has taken a logic class knows this definition. and for those who haven't, welcome to it.

Example 1.A.

Three is larger than two.

Two is larger than one.

Therefore, three is larger than one.

Assuming the premises of Example 1.A. are true, the conclusion is logical.

Example 1.B.

Seven is larger than six.

Six is larger than ten.

Therefore, seven is larger than ten.

Assuming the premises of Example 1.B. are true, the conclusion is also logical.

are you with me?

disturbing, isn't it.

have you ever experienced the feeling of something making sense on paper but not in your heart?….something that just didn't "sit well" with you despite its apparent logicality?

perhaps the examples above serve to clarify your problem.

maybe, just maybe, your "something" that didn't sit well with you--that fidgeted in its chair and constantly asked you questions you had no answers for--was logical, but not true.

at times it works the other way around as well.

i betray myself now, for i am one who believes that our souls can know truths before our minds understand them…

sometimes logic means nothing to our souls.

in part, this confusion of truth owes homage to the fact that our modern society has misled the meaning of "logic" by assuming that logic is truth.

logic is not truth.

logic only assumes truths, without the requirement of a basis for them.

logic is disinterested in genuine truth.

logic uses words as symbols without mind to their definitions.

one could easily take the words of a logical argument and replace them with symbols....

the logic would not be diluted.

this is essentially algebra:

version 1:

If Jon is tall, then he is not short.

Jon is tall.

Therefore, Jon is not short.

version 2:

If A, then B

Therefore B.

point: words are but symbols in logic.

thus, despite our tendency to label arguments that appear absurd or irrational as also being, "illogical," many times they're not

(remember, 1.B. is absurd and untrue, but it is still technically logical).

i learned this the hard way. my lesson: stop trying to win the argument based solely on logical skill…

Who is Spain?

Why is Hitler?

When is right?

Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?

-Joseph Heller, Catch-22

as i said, we must be careful in trusting words that too purely form logic.

words are arbitrary, unstable symbols. just because the headlines makes sense, doesn't mean you have to believe it.

words are just symbols.

in a book entitled The Stuff of Thought: Language as a Window into Human Nature, author Steven Pinker recognizes the subjectivity of words.

each of us, because of our upbringings, our political slants, our knowledge of language itself, etc., define words subjectively.

what does "liberal" mean to you?

nevertheless, in order to communicate with one another, we must agree on some things.

Pinker points out that our agreeance is to think and act with language according to particular parameters—certain dogmas of grammar and syntax.

sometimes these parameters are arcane or nonsensical, but if we're going to communicate properly we must obey them.

take this strange example of pluralization:

if the plural of tooth is teeth, why is the plural of booth not beeth?

similarly, why do we say things like, “if you could pass the guacamole, that would be awesome“ when what we really mean to say is “please pass the guacamole” (Pinker 22)?

the fact is, it doesn’t really matter why we do what we do.

most often these grammatical Rules of Word are set by nothing more than tradition;

they're arbitrary;

and still, we follow them.

the WARNING: we can play with our words, but our words can also play with us.

i guess i just want to reiterate the necessity to be discerning.

logic is important, but it's not everything.

without morals or truth to support them, logical arguments are just words.

and words are just symbols.

and symbols standing alone are just shapes. and shapes are just art.

and art is completely subjective.

in fact, why should you even believe what i am writing?

do my arguments seem as suspiciously logical to you as they do to me?

……?

still, my point is that in today's society of media and technology we are confronted with more information, more gimmicks, more issues, more opinions during the course of a single day than many of our ancestors were confronted with in their entire lifetimes.

in fact, research has already wondered if our minds are evolving fast enough too keep up with this onslaught of information.

are the recent trends of addiction and social introversion the signs of our misguided attempts to cope with the information age?

did you know that there are actually rehab centers for internet addicts now?

refrain from judgment before you judge.

you try checking BBC, NBC, CNN, NPR, ABC, Wallstreet, the New York Time, the New Yorker, and Scientific American each and every day but still have time for Facebook, Twitter, Epicurious, YouTube, Blogger, Wikipedia, and (to be trite) your work, your family, your friends, your health, and your dog.

there is just too much information to take in.

research has also found that in the face of chaos our minds will do almost anything to create sense (gestalt): we see faces in a scattering of dots, we form conspiracy theories out of tragedy, we construct false memories and testify to them in court. all in a desperate attempt to create logic in our lives.

logic in our lies.

ok, now i've said too much.

the bulk of our endlessly flowing information comes through words…

selfish, subjective, capricious, prevaricating words

…so be discerning.

fini.

Fleshy Scarlet Letters

2012-01-13T18:35:00.000-08:00

the three girls in the pictures go to the same school.

minya.

where mangoes hang from trees like overgrown yoyos.

i spoke to the headmaster about tribal scars.

he told me that the children were scarred according to the number of failed pregnancies that preceded them.

or if they had died and come back to life.

or if they were born ill.

i wondered what it would be like to go throughout my life with an engraved reminder of my deceased siblings.

surely i would ask myself:

what would they look like?

how would they laugh?

would mom have liked them better?

she does.

why did i survive?

or what of the engraved reminder that i, since my first breath, have been living on borrowed time.second chance time.

should i not see every sight as doubly-blessed?

precious, delicate, and undeserved.

why was my knot retied if the Fates had supposedly decided it must be cut?

fickle Fates.

why did i survive?

and illness?

what if each of us donned scars to recite or betray our weaknesses?

i wondered what the shape of scars would be and why.

3 sideways for selfishness. 6 for pride. an X for incontinence.

to each his own until we were all marred and deformed with our own fleshy scarlet letters.

would masochism arise as we tried to change one transgression to another?

doesn't it already.

how would social hierarchies change?

would they?

would some of us be hated, shunned, and cast out for the shape of our scars?

or would the mutual revelation of weakness bring us together?

after all, none of us are perfect, and now we'd have proof.

let us be one.

no.

we've shown time and again thatdifference, sadly, breeds division and subdivision more than anything else.

perhaps, at least, scars would ensure our honesty.

Self Discovery

2012-01-12T17:17:00.000-08:00

Drafts of Worry and Wonder Slither Up the Sheets

2012-01-09T18:07:00.000-08:00

I wrote the following a few years ago after having a night of dreadful concern. As I stayed up, worried, the voice of my mother reverberated to me, "You can stay up all night worrying about it, but the only thing that will happen is that you won't get any sleep." I can't tell you how true this statement is, nor how indicative of my mother's practical side. I have repeated this quip time and time again, both to myself and other suffering with an obsession. But that night, that worrisome night, it really didn't make much difference.

I remembered this poetic essay today because a friend has recently suffered a string of such sleepless nights. As I listened to him, day and again, I knew that the end would come eventually, and I told him so. But of course I was talking from tomorrow--a day he hadn't reached yet. So he understood what I was saying, and he believed it, but he couldn't live in it, and he knew it. This stirred memories of my sleepless night and its strange essay. I remember lying awake, tumultuous inside, when I finally became distracted by the thought that everyone has such nights in their life. Sleepless nights with a broken heart, or a cancer scare, or the void of a loved one passed on. We all have them. Therefore what?

We each have sleepless nights that come throughout our lives;

Nights when Dream forgets to tuck us in

and frigid drafts of Worry and Wonder slither up our sheets.

Nights when our ears catch only the chorus and never the credcendo of Lullaby's secret song-

thus repeating but never succumbing to her melody.

Nights when Thought disobeys our exhausted pleas for silence

and so prayers for peace slowly ooze from our eyes,

"Please, go to sleep. Please, be silent."

It is in these nights- these nights of Toss and Turn- that our spirits fight and our bodies change.

Often the first such night comes to us when we are

too young to dismiss an awful dream, but too old to flee to sister's bed.

We're never the same after such hours with rowdy Solitude disheveling the parlor of our mind.

We are never the same when our thoughts have once wandered the paths of Extreme and Extremity. Especially in the dark.

Especially alone.

We don't wish these sleepless nights on others,

just as we don't wish for lessons in long-suffering or learning to mourn,

but we reverence them.

We recognize that such nights can dig depths and discover details

that would otherwise remain untraversed.

Think of a night when you could not sleep for trouble and concern.

Some who face these nights will break with weakness or denial.

They will "never be the same" in the sad sense of the phrase.

They will be forgetful and forever turbulent,

never learning nor finding peace in the trial.

Never really sleeping again.

As for the rest of us,

we will rise with the sabbath sun.

bloody, beaten, and scarred, but not dead.

At times we will do so only to await another tortured night until the pain subsides.

But we will do so nevertheless until the end.

Death, Disease, Failure, Guilt, Pain, Separation, Uncertainty, Unfilfillment.

Whether for ourselves or for another,

these are the causes of such nights that I speak of.

These are not the nights of sleepless reverie in love when our minds meander in bliss

about a pipe dream.

But rather the nights of sleepless, pointless redundancy.

Nights when we cannot tell what will happen or when we cannot conscience what is happening.

Nights of fear, or at least the struggle against it.

In these nights we discover what we're afraid of.

In these nights we discover what we truly put our trust in, and if we truly have a faith.

In these nights we testify, at least to the moon, that we care for this life or someone in it.

We testify that we are attached.

Truth such as this, purely proffered in overdose, can be terrifying.

Yet when Sleep and Peace finally come to such nights,

after moments,

or years,

they come with the heavy blankets of Humility.

Sleep and Peace often forget the pillow of Understanding,

but they never forget the blankets.

They find us naked and they cover us.

They remind us that we were never alone

and that the inevitable stream of time is as much a balm as a bane to our existence.

"This moment,

you see,

may hurt for now.

But only Moment upon Moment will make this one subside."

If, by moments, we emerge to the day from the darkness,

our eyes will take time to adjust.

The light of a new day, a new lifestyle, is at first too strong to see by.

At first it is blinding.

But because they must and because they can,

our eyes will alter to perceive.

Our hearts and our souls will expand and we will remain forever changed.

It's been a long time since that sleepless night of mine, and not so long since others. It is interesting to feel how my mind has categorized them while I sit here and reflect. Some still hurt a bit, but most are little more than a snapshot of the night. Consciously or unconsciously, good or ill, they've all forged me.

I hope not to underestimate the struggles of those with severe depression, or serious illness, or extenuating circumstance. Some ruts and trials are very, very deep. Some sleepless nights go past the point we call "fair." Some, I'm sure, seem merciless. But I speak here to give hope and perhaps a sense of empathy. If nothing else, I speak as a reminder that we can all be brave--especially when no one is able to notice.

So, to the friend who is struggling with their string of sleepless nights,
I speak from tomorrow.

thanks to spen and aaron for the photo.

Birds

2012-01-02T17:13:00.001-08:00

a snow petrol, taken whilst aiming up on my trip to Antarctica 2011

(repost)
each of these is quite like the others inone way:

bevy, charm, colony, convocation, covey, exaltation,fall, flight, gaggle, herd, host, murder, murmuration, muster, nye, parliament,siege, and team.

the answer: birds

a bevy of quail.
a charm of finches.
a colony of gulls.
a convocation of eagles.
a covey of grouse.
an exaltation of larks.
a fall of wookcock.
a flight of swallows.
a gaggle of geese.
a herd of swans.
a host of sparrows.
a murder of crows.
a murmuration of starling.
a muster of peackocks.
a nye of pheasants.
a parliament of owls.
a siege of herons.
a team of ducks.

if you were a bird, what would your family be named?

a while back i made a story out of them:

Before we left, my father had worked in the Parliament. He wore a white wig and attended, each Thursday, a great convocation of men in starchedjackets. "What do they do in those meetings?" I asked mymy mother. "They choose teams," shereplied, patting flour out of her apron and placing her eyes level with mine, "and then they use words until their red in theface." I heard the giggle gaggle of my pigtailed sister and Ismiled in half belief.

I'm not sure what my mother did all day, besides tending the house. Each night our table was spread with charm and delicacy. Herwork and prayers could turn the most modest of meals nye unto a banquet. Shewas a gracious host to any covey that met around her board. We had a fireplace.

Then, one night, a siege came. It was Fall when it happened, and themurmuration of bombs above our heads left us breathless for fear ina temporary grave beneath our house. The quick death of Silence wasa murder by the Noxious Sounds.
When she resurrected (Silence, that is), she came with a warning look in her eyes.We knew we must leave. My mother gave me a glance fraught with the meaning ofwords. I must muster the wings to flee--her blue eyes said to me--to takenaught but my memories in tow.

Above ground we found that our city had turned to bricks of rubble, like the legos I spilled at cousin's house last year. There was nothing more to our tiny colony on Pecking street. So we fled.
Our flight was quick amongst the tide of an anxious bevy. So tight wasthe herd of refugees, and so small was I, that the only things for me to see were the clay beneath and stars above. I chose above. Ialways have.
I remember clearly their exaltation that night--those tiny lights. Theirtwinkling mimicked the fires and rubble reflected in my mother's shiny cheeks. All was darkthat night, beside the stars, the fire, and my mother's cheeks.

...ok, not necessarily the best or happiest of stories, but that's evidently what came out of me aftertwo hours in a poli sci class at uni a few years ago.

2011-03-26T14:14:00.000-07:00

wandered for two weeks abroad. then came home. home to oxford. driving the alleyways late, late at night....with sleeps of flight in our eyes....it was nice to be home amongst the cobblestone, pubs, and daffodils. the thought of other homes rested inside. there are almost 30 houses and flats to name--to say nothing of the secret places of solitude. in fact, where others chronologize their childhood in terms of age or grade, i think of it in terms of house or city: kindergarten was Novato, second grade was Oregon, fifth grade was San Juan, freshman year was Laguna Beach, etc. etc....Some years can even be broken down by month according to this process: junior year Christmas was the condo in Dana Point, but Thanksgiving was the house down the street, summer of second grade was in Colorado, but winter was in Bend, Oregon. some homes are too beautiful to forget. some i only imagine now.

it's worth while (whatever a 'while' is) to take a different perspective on the past and understand it in terms of location. to drop all other factors, and view how surroundings-- those shapes, societies and social mores formed by others and nature over the ages--have come to sculpt the people we are.

washington dc / newport beach, ca / provo, ut / bend, or / siena, italy / oxford, united kingdom / accra, ghana

mr. ellard provokes thought on this topic.

2011-03-15T15:28:00.000-07:00

rain:

it falls today, imperceptibly.

does i fall?

or does it just hover there, waiting for me?

little specks in midair.

this seems more likely.

this graveyard is beside my department in oxford.

there is something artful to the blooming of spring in such a place.

i wonder how many deaths and rebirths this plot has seen.

2011-02-26T13:53:00.000-08:00

the english rain

time at times passes through us,

like the drips of rain;

the chaos of many at once of which,

sound like a gush of water.

drip..........drip.........drip.......drip......

drip.....drip...drip..drip.drip.drip.

drip. drip. drip. drip. drip. drip.

drip,drip,drip,drip,drip,drip,drip,

dripdripdripdripdripdripdripdripdrip

ddddddddddrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiippppppp.

through the crates in us.

should be a shame if we should miss the rhythms and crescendo of it all under an umbrella.

2011-01-20T06:32:00.001-08:00

college president giggled at my ignorance..evidently the above are crocuses...and they are everywhere.

i awoke in a dream to the smell of flowers,

and again, and again throughout the night.

what a vivid dream, i thought.

he'd gotten home late.

when i rose in the morning, lillies were everywhere.

2010-12-14T15:36:00.001-08:00

I've witnessed an interesting unfolding lately, a story that's mine but not my own, and I've come to some conclusions:

1. Friends are as bones, and their failure leaves the soft and fragile insides of us bruise-ably exposed. Imagine how careful you'd be with yourself if you had no ribs. Just picture it. Even wrapping your arms around you would not suffice. Is it strange? disgusting? disturbing even? Yes, but it's a good thought picture, nevertheless. And imagine how gentile you must be when you're around someone like that. You probably are and don't know it. Friends fail sometimes. They just do.

2. Everyone has a fear. I underestimated this coming to Oxford. Everyone. And there seems to be a top ten list that most people subscribe to.

3. Justice is vague when all sides are right, but not all right together--when two conclusions are 'fair' or even 'logical.' Under such circumstances, decisions seem to be drawn by an untrained hand...like a horrible caricature of what could have been were Agreement to be in our presence. This vagueness is found both in the wars of nations and of individuals (which is really one in the same, no?).

4. None of us really knows know what 'ought to be' in most situations.

5. Great souls expand under pressure, weak souls flatten.

6. There is a fine line between being meek and being cowardly. I don't know that I can see the difference yet, but it is there.

the organ of Christ Church.

2010-10-10T13:04:00.000-07:00

Oxford. There is, of course, different beauty all around in the aged stone, but this is one still quite alive.

2010-07-10T12:14:00.000-07:00

my attempts at artistic depictions while he's singing in his sleep.

2010-06-22T21:56:00.000-07:00

amifly mapincg irtp

2010-05-11T15:49:00.000-07:00

flowers, fish, and birds.....the colors and patterns involved with these three alone astound me. comparatively, i only pretend to be creative.

Flowers for my mom...happy mother's day mommy, i love you!

2010-02-08T22:26:00.000-08:00

if you pay very close attention, you may suspect as i do:

deep down, Time and Clock don't really like one another all that much.

in fact, i once mused to a friend that, 'Father Time is a fickle ol’man-- sliding cards up his sleeve and seeking oft to play the ace of diamonds.'

i did't mean to paint my constant companion in a bad light, however. perhaps what i perceive of as 'cheating' is more accurately my misunderstanding the rules of the game.

(click the drawing. note the sleeve.)

FATHER TIME, GRANDFATHER CLOCK

2009-10-14T10:25:00.000-07:00

i went
to some place in england:

there are times in life when our plans come to ruin.
when our glass of expectancy is
s / h / a/ t / t /e/ r/ e / d

and
we are
left

on our knees

to gather
sharp shards with bare hands.

(flesh cut deep
to draw crimson silk)

we may endeavor to heal the pieces
of our fractured dreams

--call that
courage or masochism,
as you will--

or we may endeavor to throw them away...

weeping,
for even the
smallest
p/ i/ e/ c/ e

still
catches
light as homage

`````````to

`````the
past.

Else we build Mosaics:
awkward scraps of

old

and

new

sealed together
by what
ifs?
and
ambiguity.

By perhapses,
and
others' outstretched arms.

To create
life
and
variance.
To create beauty.

To put the crimson silk in

sunset

and

sunrise.

:and came back, for now…?

2009-09-27T22:44:00.000-07:00

auntie susan's picket fence.

shaded doors in my basement bathroom. you'd think there was something cool on the other side. just a shower.

who knew broken glass can be fixed with duct tape? these photos were not edited.

i lived in provo, utah for five years. five years is a record for me to stay put. as put as one can be while traveling as much as possible.

still, provo was my home.

provo, in italian, means "i try."

and i did try.
no regrets.

my last two months were much quieter than my first. long runs and slow walks. equal amounts of wandering....but sadie mae is a quasi-silent companion.
snaps and clicks mostly.

i don't imagine anyone but myself will take interest in the above few photos. i post them as a selfish deposit in the memory bank.

for transitions sake.