I See Said the Blind[person]
Thu 04/29/04 at 1:26 pmNow that I actually have my blog, I’m even more aware of internal and external stimuli that I could turn into blog entries. Indeed, I’ve not sat down to write for a while because different ideas have been falling over themselves in my mind to the point that I was overwhelmed with the thought of picking out just one of them and seeing where it goes. This morning, though, I’d pretty much decided where, at least, to begin. And then, a few sentences into this composition, I realize I’ve written something that takes me in an entirely new direction. To wit, why did I just write the phrase “seeing where it goes?” The eyes are unnecessary for thought. See, e.g., The Iliad, The Odyssey, and Paradise Lost. The tag I just used, “see, e.g.,” I wrote hundreds of times during my life as a lawyer. Legal briefs follow the rules set forth in The Bluebook: A Uniform System of Citation. According to said same (I’m in lawyer mode now), using “[s]ee” means the “cited authority [that follows] directly states or clearly supports the proposition.” Adding “,e.g.” indicates that “other authorities also state, support, . . . the proposition but that citation to them would not be helpful or is not necessary.” Id. (briefspeak for “ibidem” or “ibid.”).
Sight is unnecessary to write. I could type this entry with my eyes closed. Indeed, the various implements associated with the task of writing are unnecessary. Included within the many definitions of write or writing is “to produce or be engaged in producing a poem, book, play, story, or article: give literary or journalistic form to a conception, plot, or happening.” See Webster’s Third New International Dictionary (1976 ed.). No one suggests that Milton didn’t wrote Paradise Lost even though one or the other of his daughters actually wrote it. More specifically, then, Milton prescribed while one or the other of his daughters transcribed. “Pre-,” however, means “earlier than: prior to: before.” Mirriam-Webster Online. So maybe it is more accurate to say (I mean write) (don’t get me started) that Milton described Paradise Lost, since “de-” means “to reduce.” Id. Except, one doesn’t necessarily need words to write; i.e., another definition of write is “to take part in or bring about (something worthy of recording) . . . the Colorado River has been writing a record of history in the earth’s crust.” Hot-metal Magic. Webster’s Third.
So, the writing of a thought occurs sometime before it is either prescribed or described. The writing, however, appears to end before the thought is transcribed, as “trans-” means “on or to the other side of.” Mirriam-Webster. So when does the seeing of the thought take place? Well, I guess that depends on however one understands the title of the first chapter in my Freshman English textbook, “[h]ow can I know what I think until I see what I say?”
Why am I here?
Wed 04/21/04 at 5:42 pmOkay, I’m going to try to recreate the process I went through in creating this latest entry. Most of what I consider to be blog-worthy thoughts fall far short of the epiphany mark for me. Some merely unfold gently and calmly in my brain. Others explode with what Darcy calls BFOs (blinding flashes of the obvious) — those thoughts that result in a figurative, sometimes even literal, slap of the forehead. Epiphanies, though, travel like a lightening strike from my brain into my solar plexus and ignite me inside out. Epiphanies are deep red with pink around the edges.
In the early days I’d walk them off. In my teens, I’d fight fire with fire and smoke. In my later teens, I’d douse them with scotch, et al. Then it was back to just cigarettes. As my brother once quipped, “We had a cigarette for every emotion.” Epiphanies though meant several cigarettes in fairly rapid succession. Now, I let spacetime take care of them (though ice cream does help).
Before getting to this morning’s epiphanic moment, I need to provide some context. Especially during my life as an attorney, I would (more often than I care to admit) find myself arising from my desk, wandering into the hallway, and stopping abruptly, usually just in front of my legal assistant’s cubicle, and questioning, out loud, “Who am I, and why am I here?” The question for me was triggered by the fact that I had quite simply forgotten why I found myself standing in the hallway. My legal assistant though, never one to let any question, even a rhetorical one, go unanswered, would usually say, “You are C. Kristine Osnes, Esquire, and you are here because you love the law.”
First, I’m sure it does not escape you, as it does not escape me, that I just characterized what is so often identified as an individual’s life purpose as a rhetorical question. Second, while I did, and do, love the chase for the ever-just-elusive seamless web that can be spun out of legal argument and interpretation; I was there, more and more, for the money. I finally quit when I realized no one could pay me enough to do it any more. (Well that, and the fact I didn’t have kids to put through college).
Anyway, given that for me, wondering who I am goes hand in hand with wondering why I am here, I sat down at my computer this morning thinking a companion piece to my “Who I am” entry was in order. I deliberately chose to entitle my previous entry as an affirmative statement. I figured that one out quite some time ago. Knowing who I am wasn’t the problem. It was being able to be who I am. I am grateful my life has evolved to a point where that is, indeed, possible.
Why I am here still poses a question, but not one that troubles me much anymore. Here is neither the place nor the time (spacetime, again) to detail my search for the meaning of, or even if there is a meaning to, my life or anyone else’s. If ever I actually finish my novel, whose working title is The First Voice, a good deal of my search will be recorded therein. In brief, writing and thinking about The First Voice led me to research the concept of sentience — thinking the term could serve as a more elegant-sounding synonym for the concept of self-awareness. (I sure thought that’s what Jean Luc and the others meant whenever they encountered a new life form.) According to Merriam-Webster Online, however, sentience means “feeling or sensation as distinguished from perception and thought.” In contrast, self-awareness means “an awareness of one’s own personality or individuality.”
Though controversy exists as to whether other creatures or objects are, or can become, self-aware, ultimately, I agree with those who have concluded self-awareness must, by definition, include an awareness of death — especially an awareness of one’s own death. Further discussion of this aspect of self-awareness, however, can wait for another day. For my present purposes, it suffices that self-awareness means we tend to question our place in the world, the galaxies, the universe(s). Surely there must be more to it than this; surely there must be a reason for being; surely there must be others out there. These days, I find I’m spending a lot of time thinking about Stephen Hawking’s supposition in this regard. He speculates:
[T]here is a very low probability either of life developing on other planets or of that life developing intelligence. Because we claim to be intelligent, though perhaps without much ground, we tend to see intelligence as an inevitable consequence of evolution. However, one can question that. It is not clear that intelligence has much survival value. Bacteria do very well without intelligence and will survive us if our so-called intelligence causes us to wipe ourselves out in a nuclear war. So as we explore the galaxy we may find primitive life, but we are not likely to find beings like us.
The Universe in a Nutshell, p. 171.
In this context, then, I closed my eyes a while ago and asked, why am I here? In response, I heard in my mind’s ear, I think therefore I am. I am. The [present] first person singular of [the infinitive] “to be.” I be. No, I am. Why am I here? No, why I be here? And then I experienced the lightening followed by the spreading warmth of realization — what Virginia Woolf labeled the moment. What Joyce calls an epiphany. And on the heels of the moment, came the struggle to translate the mindspeak engendered by the epiphany into a language others might understand. I’m not yet fluent enough in the English language to prevail in that endeavor. Here, though, is as much of the after-the moment-process as I can remember, as well as what I did to augment the memories as I wrote this account.
The first thing I remember is thinking of the French version of Descartes’ theory. Je pense, donc je suis. I also remarked to myself that nothing gets lost in the translation. My painful study of French required me to be learn about infinitives, tenses, and regular and irregular verbs. So I already knew that the infinitive of I am is to be. I knew to be was an irregular verb because instead of I be, the present first person singular form is I am. Just for fun, I looked up the term infinitive. According to good old M-W, the use of the term as a noun means “a verb form normally identical in English with the [present] first person singular that performs some functions of a noun and at the same time displays some characteristics of a verb and that is used with to (as in ‘I asked him to go’) except with auxiliary and various other verbs (as in ‘no one saw him leave‘).” (Emphasis in the original.) My epiphany left me with the following questions: (1) Why was to be an irregular verb? (2) Where did am come from? (3) Could I think of any other verbs where the irregular form of the present first person singular means something different from what would have been the regular form of the present first person singular? Perhaps someday I’ll take the time to try and find the answers.
At present, however, I (and probably you) have pretty much lost sight of what any of this discussion has to do with why I am, or we or you (singularly and plurally) or they are, or he, she, or it is, here. I am certain that understanding the distinction between aming and being in the context of the two primary questions with which I started out this morning meant something important earlier today. I am less certain at this hour. Maybe it’s as simple as I am not am unless I think, but I can be and not think. I guess that really only works if you agree with Descartes instead of Popeye. Still, even if Hawking is right, and we are simply an evolutionary fluke of the universe and a mere blip in spacetime such that our only reason for being is that we be, I like the opportunity I’ve got to be who I am.
Who I am
Mon 04/19/04 at 9:12 amSo, if the Walking Raven is my Muse and not my nom de plume, you may ask, as the Caterpillar did to Alice, “Who [am I]?” My name is C. Kristine Osnes, formerly known as Kristy, Toolah (to my Grandma Barbara), Krissy (to a very chosen few). I am now known as Kris, Kristine, C. Kristine, cko (or a combination thereof to most); Kris-E (to mjh’s chosen one); Krisofer (to my Father and Bonnie); Krusteen (to my brother); the Shopping Devil (to my brother-in-law); Bubba (to Christine and her circle); Leany, Leanage, Ay Matey, Little Filly, or Brave Buckaroo (to my sister); Auntie-Kris-Momma (to Milly, my cocker spaniel niece); Bug or Bear (often to Darcy); and finally, Tinky Winky, Tinky, or Tink (even, sometimes, to myself).
I have been different super heros, The Lone Ranger, Robin Hood, the Supreme Commander of toy soldiers, an artist, a student, a cook, a typesetter, a scholar, a golfer, a gamer, an attorney, a wannabe dweeb, of counsel, lead counsel, the codifier of rules.
Now, at last, for the most part, I just am. Which is really all I’ve ever wanted to be. Oh, and I am JEDI (at least to those of you who know the area code and prefix).
The Tenth Muse
Thu 04/15/04 at 3:32 pmIn his “Welcome to Edgewise” email, my buddy Mark announced that I would write under the nom de plume of “walking raven.” That’s not exactly right. Mark and I had talked about blogs in the past, and he’d sent me notice when his got up and running. I expressed some interest in having a blog my damn self. Then I sent him what became my December 24 entry and told him that was the kind of stuff I wanted to put on my blog. He posted it, I think on his blog — sort of fuzzy on the exact chain of events. For those of you who don’t know me or weren’t raised in the Midwest, for nearly 50 years now, I have lived a shame-based life to the fullest — though in the last few years I’ve occasionally permitted, or even took actions that resulted in, attention being drawn to myself. I know what some of you are thinking — and you’re right — thank god for Paxil. Before then, public attention of any sort was strictly on an as-needed basis, and never without discomfort. So, I’m sure you can see why I couldn’t possibly register my given name as a domain name — no www.mjhinton.net with a comin’ at you digital photo for me, no sir! And then James Joyce came to my rescue. I had an epiphany. Would I have had an epiphany if I’d not read James Joyce and learned about epiphanies? I guess I wouldn’t have had an epiphany because I didn’t know what such a thing was. But would I have had something like an epiphany? Well, that’s a blog entry for another day. Anyway, the background leading up to my epiphany started with a childhood fascination with the ravens that appeared with regularity in the books I read. I have no awareness of ever seeing a raven in real life. I know now there are raven in Minnesota and Iowa, but when I was growing up, ravens and crows were just crows.
Then, one day I came across the most incredible painting in the form of a blank card:
And I had a moment of recognition. I was staring at my Muse.* Why this creature is my Muse, I don’t know. I just know that it is. The picture is by a German artist named Hurzlmeier Rudi and it’s called simply Kraehe, German for “Crow.” So, I asked a birder if she could explain the difference to me between ravens and crows. She immediately quipped, “it’s a matter of opinion.” Apparently, this particular question is a birder joke. When she realized I actually wanted a serious answer to my question, we did some research. From what we could glean from Sibley’s et al., it boils down to a difference in their calls. In addition, ravens soar, crows flap. Then, for Christmas, my partner Darcy got me the Navajo carving of the Walking Raven with purple sneakers. Shortly thereafter I recorded my first blog entry. In the ensuing days, I went on line and learned that the domain name “walking crow” had been reserved, but “walking raven” had not. The rest, as they say, is history.
* For those of you who, like me, might need a refresher, in Greek mythology, the Muses were nine goddesses, daughters of the god Zeus, king of the gods, and of Mnemosyne, the goddess of memory. The Muses were believed to inspire all artists, especially poets, philosophers, and musicians. By late Roman times (3rd century to 5th century), each Muse was believed to preside over a particular art: Calliope was the muse of epic poetry; Clio of history; Euterpe of lyric poetry sung to the accompaniment of the flute; Melpomene of tragedy; Terpsichore of choral songs and the dance; Erato of love poetry sung to the accompaniment of the lyre; Polyhymnia of sacred poetry; Urania of astronomy; and Thalia of comedy. Microsoft Encarta Reference Library 2003. © 1993-2002 Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved.
Blog-worthiness II
Mon 04/05/04 at 5:46 pmSometimes when I have what I now consider to be a blog-worthy thought (because such things as blogs exist) I start to compose a blog-entry in my head. I think in words — at least when I am aware that I am thinking I think in words. There was a time when I spent so much of my time typing that my thoughts became a marquee streaming across the inside of my forehead. I would literally “type” them on my platonic keyboard letter by letter. It was with some amazement (and suspicion) that I learned other people do not, apparently, think in words but in some other way. No one has quite been able to explain what that is like. I’ve tried to imagine what it must be like to have unspoken concepts or images floating around in one’s head that every once in awhile get snared and translated.
These days, my word thoughts are no longer typed. Rather, I tell them to myself. And sometimes, as stated above, a blog-worthy thought emerges from this running commentary. When it does, I stop and examine it. Often it’s a question that comes to [my] mind. Occasionally, it’s a declarative statement. Other times, the world or individuals in the world supply me with blog-worthy ideas, like the fortune that became my January 25th entry. These are the bits and pieces I sometimes jot down on paper or record as a voice memo to save for further examination at a more convenient time.
A few years ago at an Urban Outfitters I came across a wonderful green notebook with ruled pages, about 4″x 6″ in size. It had a ribbon of elastic to keep it closed. I purchased that wonderful book and carried it with my whereever I went, and every once in a while had the wherewithal to jot down thoughts or phrases that I found of interest — though less than 20 pages over nearly as many years have even made it that far. Recently, I learned that this notebook is a knockoff of a Moleskine notebook, “the legendary notebook of European artists and intellectuals, from . . . Ferdinand Celine to Andre Breton to Earnest Hemingway.” Moleskine products are being manufactured again by an Italian company, Modo et Modo. I ran across a variety of Moleskine notebooks in the Satellite Cafe on Central Avenue in Albuquerque, New Mexico a while back. Of course, I had to have one (Earnest Hemingway, after all), though I’ll probably never write in it as my green knockoff still has about 80 blank ruled pages. (You too can have one by visiting www.modoemodo.com.)
In any event, having this blog might just inspire me to give some context to these few pages of words and phrases, and let you all know some of what it is I’ve spent the last twenty years talking to myself about.