They are laughing at the fact they are old and growing infirm. Someone else’s name arises. “She’s not the center of the universe,” he says to woman reading Parkinson’s material. Climbing stairs he hopes she is still taking the amusement of their banter.
He only means the interpretation someone gives for something is merely the interpretative opinion their mind fashions out of the patterns and habits accumulated over long stretch of time.
He means the guess anyone has about the world they visit is as good as the 10,000 guesses they could have made.
He is speaking about anyone who seems to present themselves with the calling card that they are the center of the universe. (Which, in a different context, they actually are.)
He means he knows he’s full of baloney. He’s unsure the reading woman has the same opinion about herself. And leaves it there.
Mountains on all sides
Rivers looped around it
There's no trail to my hut.
When the dragon elephant approaches
A path opens all by itself
In the hour of soaring talk
Neither has to think of meeting
The other half way
Though all of you keep
Wandering into yes and no.
(-- Muso Soseki (1275-1351))
The physicist claims she has no particular interest in the cultural conditioning the vast majority of us cling to -- what to wear, what not to wear in the tidy expectations of societal norms. The universe, the multi-verse is so enormous, complicated, and diverse -- and we are so small, odd, and narrow. What, I wonder, does it matter if we wear a jacket to dinner, hat to church, shoes to business meeting, use salad fork with lasagna, believe in Jesus or tree-spirits, vote republican, stifle cuss words in mixed company, or even spend our life listening to spondee and dactyl of afternoon trees dancing with sunny breeze during casual walk?
It, the implication resounds, doesn’t matter. Still, there are realities we have to observe.
A MADMAN DREAMS OF TURING MACHINES
A Madman Dreams of Turing Machines bridges fiction and nonfiction to tell a strange if true story of coded secrets, psychotic delusions, mathematical truth, and lies. This story of greatness and weakness, of genius and hallucination, is based on the parallel lives of Kurt Gödel, the greatest logician of many centuries, and Alan Turing, the extraordinary code breaker during World War II. Taken together their work proved that truth is elusive, that knowledge has limits, that machines could think. Yet Gödel believed in transmigration of the soul and Turing concluded that we were soulless biological machines. And their suicides were complementary: Gödel, delusional and paranoid, starved himself to death fearing his food was poisoned. Turing ate a poison apple, driven to suicide after being arrested and convicted of homosexual activities. These two men were devoted to truth of the highest abstract nature, yet were unable to grasp the mundane truths of their own lives. Through it all, the narrator wonders, along with these two odd heroes, if any of us can ever really grasp the truth.
(-- from description of her novel by Janna Levin on her website) http://www.jannalevin.com/science.html
If we are working with “nothing” -- how is the mind to remain sane?
If we are working with “everything” -- how are we able to accomplish anything?
If we are interested in “thinking/acting” -- is there any better way aside from stillness and silence?
A Way of Working
Once, Chuang Tzu tells us, there was a master craftsman who made such beautiful things out of wood the the King himself demanded to know the secret of his art.
“Your Highness,” said the carpenter, “there is no secret; but there is something. This is how I begin. When I am about to make a table, I first collect my energies and bring my mind to absolute quietness. I become oblivious of any reward to be gained or any fame to be acquired. When I am free from the influences of all such outer considerations, I can listen to the inner voice which tells me clearly what I have to do. When my skill is thus concentrated, I take up my ax; I make sure that it is perfectly sharp, that it fits my hand and swings with my arm. Then I enter the forest. I look for the right tree: the tree that is waiting to become my table. And when I find it, I ask: ‘what have I for you, what have you for me?’ Then I cut down the tree and set to work. I remember how my masters taught me to bring my skill and my thought into relation with the natural qualities of the wood.”
The King said, “When the table is finished, it has a magical effect upon me. I cannot treat it as I would any other table. What is the nature of this magic?”
“Your Majesty,” said the carpenter, “what you call magic comes only from what I have already told you.”
(--from Chang Tsu: Inner Chapters – Translated by Gia-Gu Feng, Illustrated by Jane English.)
Behind stack of books, white dog sleeps with cedar tree and Bald Mountain drenched in April sunlight -- behind him -- glare, the Buddha, crucified Christ, piece of split wood leaning against window.
The universe might be unfathomable -- but in my room and backyard -- it is there for my unfathoming eyes.
Odd magic!
Sound of bells in afternoon wind.
