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June 21, 2005
Language & Literature, Science & Technology
“How much?”
“A lot,” she replies.
“Generic answer” he says, as he heads down the stairs.
The guy has a natural fascination for numbers and quantity. He’s expecting an impressive response. But how much is a lot? And a lot more than what?
Just then, a book drops down on the table in front of her. To put this in context, a lot of books have dropped on the table in front of her these past few months. Well…maybe not dropped, but definitely placed with loving intention.
This time, it’s “A Brief History of Infinity: The Quest to Think the Unthinkable”.
So that’s what he meant. The biggest thing there is.
“Forget counting sheep,” he muses. “Staring at this for even a minute could knock me out on the spot.”
She looks at the image again, this time walking around its infinite edges with her beautiful brown eyes. It takes just a few revolutions around Escher’s inspiring geometric forms for her mind to begin to wander, first through the recesses of her own consciousness, and then out into the infinite worlds of physics, philosophy, theology and math.
Not surprisingly, this turned out to be a little more stimulating than counting four-legged pillows as they leap rather desperately over a rustic wooden fence. Imagine if restless children were told to “think big” instead of “count sheep” as they lay awake just before bed. Imagine the sort of dreams that might unfold if their tender creative minds were exposed to that sort of higer-order thinking, just as their growing little bodies slip peacefully under the captive veil of sleep.
“Alright, little Jamie. This time, I want you to try and think about how many grains of sand it would take to fill up the entire universe.”
“Alright, little Billy. This time, I want you to think about how you would walk along that never-ending line without falling off.”
Quite simply, it isn’t until you really concentrate on the infinite that your mind begins to wander in these amazingly novel ways. The Hitchhiker’s Guide (not surprisingly) contains the following useful illustration:
“Bigger than the biggest thing ever and then some, much bigger than that, in fact really amazingly immense, a totally stunning size, real ‘wow, thats big!’ time. Infinity is just so big that by comparison, bigness itself looks really titchy. Gigantic multiplied by colossal multiplied by staggeringly huge is the sort of concept we are trying to get across here…”
And so the children think, and sleep, and think some more. And the world is forever changed. Chasing the infinite is an exercise in cognitive futility, but in the end, that’s really the point. When you think about something so unbelievably massive, in contrast, everything else seems so remarkably insignificant. All of your other problems simply dissolve. They become trivial; mere droplets under the bridge.
“But he did this” and “she said that” become obsolete. Arguing over nonsense becomes pointless. Minds grow open to other perspectives, and in the inspiring spirit of Mill, any fundamental disagreements become invaluable stepping stones to an even greater understanding of the world around us (regardless of who was right and why).
And all this from a tiny little picture on the cover of a book, that still, in its infinite greatness, doesn’t quite describe the absolute enormity of her boyfriend’s original question.
“Infinity or not,” she insists. “Love is still the biggest thing there is.”
And for him, that answer was more than enough.
Filed by The Editor on June 21st, 2005
June 19, 2005
Fiction & Art, Language & Literature
one word: distraction.
three times a second.
everywhere.
and all of them, in some way, important.
it seems impossible sometimes.
making time to capture your thoughts.
what a simple pleasure that is:
having the freedom to write.
whenever you feel the need
to put down, on paper,
for decades and centuries to come,
the precise constitution of your mind
at a specific point in time,
at some a specific place,
in some specific way.
sometimes it’s a power cord.
sometimes, a cellphone.
sometimes, even an in-law.
whichever leash you’re wearing,
be sure it isn’t strong enough
to hold you back.
because the writer’s struggle isn’t one of words;
it’s one of ideas.
words are his tools; ideas are his chores.
ideas are his hobbies.
ideas,
inevitably,
become his life.
so wherever you lie,
on that great spectrum of creativity,
we all have something in common.
we all want to share our story with the world.
we all want to create.
we all want to survive;
for longer than our bodies.
but never than our minds.
ah, the mind.
the only eternal element.
that patron of the soul.
that elusive inner beast.
that keeper of your real self-image.
that beacon of all that you are.
the mind.
that steward of the heart.
that elusive inner song.
that keeper of your real desires.
that shepherd of all that you need.
the mind.
that sceptre of the body.
that elusive outer shell.
that keeper of your real abilities.
that leader of all that you feel.
deep,
in the vast creative ether of the mind,
lies the writer’s greatest struggle.
lies his one unscaled peak.
lies his gentle inspiration.
in the mind.
that always gets…
so…
…
…
distracted.
Filed by The Editor on June 19th, 2005
June 8, 2005
History & Society, Language & Literature
Park Avenue, the Champs d’Elysee, Memory Lane. No matter the urban moniker, the basic premise is always the same: someone or something had such an impact on a specific area that all future reference to that particular spot would carry their memory for years and decades to come. But how do these “Main” streets earn their namesake in the first place? The “Champs d’Elysee”, for instance, literally translates into the “Elysian Fields“, that mythical resting place for the souls of the heroic virtuous. Berlin’s “Unter der Linden Strasse” literally tells the tale of a leisurely stroll under the street’s “Linden trees”. In Madrid, “Avenida Jose Antonio” takes its eponymous moniker from a charismatic Spanish hero. And in Sao Paulo, “Rua Paulista” simply mimics an early nickname for the city’s nearly twenty million inhabitants (originally worshipers of the catholic saint “Paul of Tarsus“). That said, New York’s “Fifth Avenue” is nothing more than a very ordinary number within the greater Manhattan grid, and despite its relatively uninspired nomenclature, it still plays host to some of the most expensive real estate on the planet.With few exceptions, most major street names have long and storied histories, filled with passion and intrigue and often significant regional importance. Take, for instance, the Toronto neighbourhood within which I presently reside. There are at least ten streets in the immediate area whose names begin with “Indian”, a system first established by legendary architect John Howard because they followed a series of ancient trails that were used by Native Canadians. Unfortunately, many of these stories have long since vanished, and their names have simply decayed into our basic urban vernacular. They’ve lost their impressive historical significance.
No street better exemplifies that tragic fate than Toronto’s infamous “Jarvis Street”. Home to the city’s modern sex trade (and, co-incidentally, one of its finest public high schools), Jarvis Street was actually named after a family of Jarvises whose stamp on the city dates back to the early 1800s. In fact, so despised were the last few relics of the Jarvis clan that Toronto’s Jarvis Collegiate went so far as to clearly distance itself from the street’s original namesake (”the school was named after the street. take note of that, please—after the street!”).
(more…)
Filed by The Editor on June 8th, 2005
June 2, 2005
Fiction & Art, Language & Literature
One day, many years after the rise of modern man, life suddenly decided that it wanted “love” to be written down, once and for all. “But,” said life, “a writer needs great inspiration to create something so beautiful; and inspiration equally needs a writer’s gentle touch to bring its own subtle poetry into being.”
So life conspired to bring both of these elements into the world, in the hopes that they might someday meet, and together, explore the true meaning of the word “love” for one final time.
Whether and when they would meet was in no way certain. In fact, it was distinctly uncertain. But life wanted “love” to inspire, and “love” only inspires when it’s shared.
So one day, the two lovers met. They didn’t know it at the time, but their love was actually a gift; as though the world conspired to bring them together, if only to share that love with the world.
Sometimes it’s easy to forget that it takes more than one person to accomplish our dreams, to achieve our full potential, to pass on our good fortune and to discover our true destiny. But love always reminds us that doing things alone is never as satisfying as doing them with someone else; someone who shares our deepest and innermost desires and our highest personal dreams; someone who understands the power and beauty of trust; someone whose purpose in life is somehow tied to your own; and someone whose purpose in love is somehow tied to your heart.
And when the two lovers finally met — when the writer was finally inspired and that inspiration was finally written down — only then was life content. Only then was “love” first understood. Only then was the world at peace.
Filed by The Editor on June 2nd, 2005
May 21, 2005
Language & Literature, Politics & World Affairs
the rational post wants YOU! (insert uncle sam’s best conscription imagery HERE)
that’s right! you, MR. DYCK, JONATHAN, have been selected to represent the exceedingly prestigious and only recently world-renouned “rational post” as their senior NEW YORK correspondent.
your pen name: DYCKTATOR (or whatever creative handle you prefer!)
to qualify, simply send us a sample of your best journalistic material, specifically as it pertains to the production of feature-quality “rational” insight into the heart and soul of the real NEW YORK, as you, MR. DYCK, JONATHAN, might happen to see it.
write about the PERILOUS life of INVESTMENT BANKING. write about the DANGERS of GENERAL URBAN MISCHIEF. write about SEX in that UNREAL CITY.
what whatever you do, just write. and trust me, you won’t regret it!
~d
(remember, i’m not only the club president…i’m also a client!)
Filed by The Editor on May 21st, 2005
May 18, 2005
Fiction & Art, Language & Literature
(another piece of early creative writing, first conceived during the intensely productive summer of 1998. once again, please pardon any excessive “linguistic enthusiasm”…)
man’s great intention
is every man inclined to greatness?
what sets apart the icons of humanity from the masses?
who provides the “average”
against which the hero’s rank is so often compared?
why do some realize their inherent genius
while others fail to even search?
could every man be as great as the greatest?
and if so, what of those rare and precious few
who’ve been so commendably erected
to the dizzying heights of perpetual praise?
so lucky is the brave stranger who chances to seek
that which is within himself, for if that greatness lies beyond
his inward glance, his incorrigible grasp,
the search alone was more than worth the effort.
what could be better for the communion of man
than a shared sense of the super-human,
and the greater glory of a unified social elite?
of man’s greatness much has been said,
but none more debasing than words of his normality,
his basic composition, or his otherwise unremarkable character.
great is the society to which we all belong,
but far greater still is our human potential,
carrying us to greatness on the shoulders of our heros
and their many great conquests into the world unknown.
for these champions of progress, “to be” is truly “to be more”.
“to be more”, then, is a chance to excel; perchance to achieve;
and in such achievements, much praise to receive.
for such is the ultimate glory of man,
and such is his duty in life’s master plan.
Filed by The Editor on May 18th, 2005