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I would like to see someone do some contemporary intellectual work on how indirect communication – communication by signals and pointers and gestures rather than direct statement – produces the best art.

The pure and simple truth is rarely pure and never simple. ~ Oscar Wilde

Communication whose style and content is dictated by constraints imposed by the rules of a scene is more creative, even more joyful, even if the realities of the life that produces the thought is very difficult.

Jean Baudrillard did some of this work in bemoaning the loss of the scene itself, which is the stage for the distinction between good and evil that we all navigate. Without the binary antipodes of cultural constraint, do we really find motivation to do anything of importance?

A thing is not necessarily true because a man dies for it. ~ Oscar Wilde

Art communicates what cannot be expressed by other means. There is more truth in fiction and in art than in any amount of moralizing speech.

When homosexuality could not be spoken, thinkers and artists – and even politicians – discovered ways to indicate what was already known, and to do it without speaking it. We love to bust these out into the open, but the art was all about indications and play.

It made great art. Plays, paintings, poetry, speeches, philosophies…

Oppressed people can create the most amazing stuff – amazing music, amazing fiction. Think of Russian novelists. Think of black gospel music compared to the dirge-like church music of privileged white colonizers. It’s true that abject poverty can also denigrate people below any ability to create, too, but among them… always a genius, a prophet.

Sometimes I wonder if that’s not at least part of what is meant by not being “of this world.” The rewards of this world – money, power, and so on – are rewards in themselves. They are rewards for now, to be enjoyed now. But that’s all.

The rewards of those who are censored and constrained and even oppressed are, by their very structure and nature, more complex – more insightful – more subtle – more deeply real. When you care enough to work around tough rules of expression, you find a way – like life itself always finds a way.

It will be a marvelous thing – the true personality of man – when we see it. It will grow naturally and simply, flower-like, or as a tree grows. It will not be at discord. It will never argue or dispute. It will not prove things. It will know everything. And yet it will not busy itself about knowledge. It will have wisdom. Its value will not be measured by material things. It will have nothing. And yet it will have everything, and whatever one takes from it, it will still have, so rich will it be. It will not be always meddling with others, or asking them to be like itself. It will love them because they will be different. And yet, while it will not meddle with others, it will help all, as a beautiful thing helps us by being what it is. The personality of man will be very wonderful. It will be as wonderful as the personality of a child. In its development it will be assisted by Christianity, if men desire that; but if men do not desire that, it will develop none the less surely. For it will not worry itself about the past, nor care whether things happened or did not happen. Nor will it admit any laws but its own laws; nor any authority but its own authority. Yet it will love those who sought to intensify it, and speak often of them. And of these Christ was one. “Know Thyself” was written over the portal of the antique world. Over the portal of the new world, “Be Thyself” shall be written. And the message of Christ to man was simply “Be Thyself.” That is the secret of Christ. ~ Oscar Wilde

The traditions of men serve to stabilize communities, but they also create boundaries that are made to be flirted with – deconstructed. As you toe the line, you doodle all around that line. Without a line, you can’t… doodle.

It’s not brazen. It’s not open. It’s not honest. And yet – isn’t it more truthful to experience? Doesn’t it really address you all the more forcefully?

It does me.

Tell all the Truth but tell it slant—
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth’s superb surprise
As Lightening to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind— ~ Emily Dickinson

“…music is the perfect type of art. Music can never reveal its ultimate secret. This, also, is the explanation of the value of limitations in art. The sculptor gladly surrenders imitative colour, and the painter the actual dimensions of form, because by such renunciations they are able to avoid too definite a presentation of the Real, which would be mere imitation, and too definite a realisation of the Ideal, which would be too purely intellectual. It is through its very incompleteness that art becomes complete in beauty, and so addresses itself, not to the faculty of recognition nor to the faculty of reason, but to the aesthetic sense alone, which, while accepting both reason and recognition as stages of apprehension, subordinates them both to a pure synthetic impression of the work of art as a whole, and, taking whatever alien emotional elements the work may possess, uses their very complexity as a means by which a richer unity may be added to the ultimate impression itself.” ~ Oscar Wilde

Here’s a turnaround. I’m asking readers for your viewpoint and advice.

Something very upsetting happened last night and I’m trying to understand where things broke down, how I should evaluate the whole thing, and what – if anything – I should do about it.

Background: We’ve been friendly with a family in the neighborhood for a couple of years now. They have a son who is a bit younger than Ben, and the boys play together – either here or at their house. We’ve all been rather flexible and informal about having the boys here or there. It’s a help all around.

Their house is a (self-described) matriarchy. They are both intelligent. She enjoys persuading others to her point of view and will use charisma and/or forcefulness as needed. She speaks with speed and volume, and is very quick-paced. Her decisions are self-directed. He is easy-going and conciliatory, speaks softly, has a slower pace. He prefers a more task- than people-oriented experience – and seems to have some attention problems from time to time. I mention their preferred behaviors because it is relevant to the way the whole situation evolved. Both have a tendency to drop details/procedures/rules, whether because (in her case) she is involved in a conversation or (in his case) he’s not really focused on the task at hand.

We have had a couple of misunderstandings before. Once, they were out of communication despite a pre-arranged plan and it meant that John couldn’t go with me to an important event. Another time, she picked the boys up, but then didn’t go back to the house, or didn’t answer her cell phone, or return my call. By the time I got home from work, I was in a near-panic. She had taken them to McDonald’s and was using the playground to keep them occupied while she worked on reports. Once, she said she was going to take care of dinner for the boys; Ben told me that dinner was pretzels and rice-cakes. I fed him dinner when he got home, just before he went to bed. More recently, I got nose to nose with her in order to try to convince her not to go into attack mode at the school (that doesn’t fly here in Georgia – people here would feel battered and abused by that – and we finally talked about strategy on some issues she had with the school policies). I can be aggressive and persuasive too – but it is a challenge even for me to get a word in edgewise if she’s on a rant. These little things have gotten smoothed out, but there is a bit of a pattern.

There has been a lot of pleasant time too. It’s nice to have a girlfriend nearby, and we met when we were both trying to finish Ph.D.s while caring for small children. She can be very charming and interesting company, and she gave me some professional advice just the other day that was very helpful. He has helped me with a couple of things around the house – installing a dimmer switch, fixing my speakers, etc., and I enjoy talking with him, too. So – all in all – it’s not exactly an easy friendship between the families, but it’s been a fairly good one.

Yesterday, they offered to take Ben in the afternoon and keep him for a sleepover. John and I had planned to catch a movie. My understanding was that they were going swimming at their friend’s house – I (mistakenly) thought that this was at a house on their street, a place we had already seen and that we knew. Then, the boys would play, have dinner, have the sleepover, and I’d come to pick him up in the morning.

John and I didn’t end up going out. We couldn’t agree on a movie. There weren’t any films playing that we both wanted to see. So we rented “Paycheck” (which was fine except for the completely gratuitous car chases and such) and had a relaxing evening at home.

At about 9:45, we got a call from the husband. They were just checking to see if we were home yet, because Ben was saying that he would rather just come home instead of having the sleepover. In an offhand way, he mentioned that they were still at the friend’s house. It was really too chilly to swim very much in the pool, so they went on paddle-boats in the lake. Now they were sitting around a fire roasting marshmallows.

I guess I kind of froze. I didn’t process what he was saying right away. I just said that we were here, and they could drop Ben off on their way home. I didn’t even ask to speak to Ben. I did ask if Ben was unhappy about something, but he said no – Ben just said he missed us and wanted to spend the night at his own house.

When I got off the phone, a kind of sick feeling in my stomach started. I thought they were around the block. They’re at a lake? Where is this lake? Paddle-boats? Were there life preservers? It’s almost ten at night, and I don’t know where my 7-year old son is, but he’s not around the corner having a sleepover with a friend.

John and I talked for a while about this. Maybe it became too big a thing. I’m not sure.

Anyway, I ended up calling back to ask if they were on their way. They weren’t. The kids were watching tv inside the house, the adults were still outside. I asked where exactly they were – a town maybe 10 miles or so from here.

So then I said that we were a little upset about this. My understanding was that they were swimming at their friend’s house this afternoon. I thought they would be at their house, and that by now Ben would be asleep. We really needed to give permission for a trip out somewhere else, especially if it involved any kind of boat on a lake. Also, it was too late for him to be out at a stranger’s house. I said that really wasn’t cool with us. We needed always to know where exactly Ben was. In future, if plans change, we really needed to be kept informed so that we could decide if the new plans were ok with us.

He said sure, he could understand, ok. They were headed back now.

At 11, they finally arrived. I was waiting on the front steps when they drove up. Both boys were asleep in the back seat. Ben was barefoot and still wearing a swimsuit. I ushered him into the house – told him to get into his pjs and get into bed. We agreed that John should stay inside because he was very angry and he tends to say things he would regret later. Ben went right to him, and they headed over to Ben’s room.

I wasn’t planning on saying much. I thought it would be better to discuss it the next day, but she went on the offensive. What’s the big deal? She had told me she was going swimming at their friends’ house. The boys were with them. It was fine.

Well, my understanding was that Ben was around the corner. I repeated that John and I have to grant permission for outings, especially if they involve water. I didn’t hear anything about staying out until 11 at night at an unknown location.

She argued that it wasn’t her fault if I didn’t realize it was a different friend than I had assumed. She said that they love Ben and he had a great time and they were with him. She intimated that I was questioning her trustworthiness. I said it wasn’t a matter of trust – if we didn’t trust them, Ben wouldn’t be out with them at all. We just needed to know where Ben was – all the time – and it was our parental job to decide whether or not to grant permission for his activities outside the house.

She said I was over-reacting. They were just over a friend’s house and decided to stay.

I said that the bottom-line is just that this is my kid, and this is my rule. I need to know where he is, and I need to give permission for changes in plan.

She started to argue some more – and I finally raised my voice and said, “Look, that’s it. It’s non-negotiable. These are the conditions under which my son goes anywhere without one of us.”

She said “you are so mean” and shouted at her husband to get back in the car. They took off.

I came back inside the house, tucked Ben into bed. He was cold and sleepy so I cuddled with him for a few minutes until he dozed off again. John and I stayed up and tried to process what happened. He finally went to sleep, but I was up until about almost four with a moderate amount of anxiety. I kept getting up and pacing, going outside. I was very thirsty. When I would get back into bed, I felt very tense and uncomfortable, and I would get up again. I felt like I needed to go outside to get enough oxygen. I didn’t have heart palpitations or anything like that, but there was a physical side to it. I’m guessing it was probably just adrenaline. It wasn’t really anger, but really kind of a somewhat panicky anxiety. I was finally able to relax by listening to music on my iPod and distracting myself so that I would stop thinking about it. Unfortunately, I woke up at the same time as always and couldn’t go back to sleep.

I don’t think I handled the situation very well. Part of why that might have been is that once I realized that Ben was off somewhere and I didn’t even know where he was or all of the people he was with, I felt like I had been a dangerously irresponsible parent and felt overwhelming fear and guilt. How could it be that I’m sitting in my house late at night and my son wants to come home and I don’t even know where he is to go pick him up?

It wasn’t unexpected that she would have gone on the offensive, and I am also somewhat predictable in not allowing myself to be bullied into compliance with anyone or anything. I knew that would be a problem, which is why I spoke to the husband about my concerns first. I should probably have just said a firm “good night” and discussed it at another time when I wasn’t so… well… freaked.

John pointed out that we would have handled it completely differently if we had their kid with us. First of all, if we said we were going somewhere to swim for a couple of hours in the afternoon, we would have told them where it was. If we decided to stay for dinner, we would have called to say there’s a change in plans, etc. Being out on a boat in a lake, being out at someone else’s house in another town, keeping the kids out (and up) just isn’t something it would occur to us to do when we were taking care of someone else’s kid.

The other thing is the practical side of the matter. In a way, it would be just as easy just to cut things off – they can get to be a bit draining at times. I really like them, but sometimes it’s kind of intense. On the other hand, the boys really like each other, and there aren’t many other children in the neighborhood. Their kid will be clamoring to see Ben starting about… now. Last night had an air of finality, but they adore their kid and it’s going to be hard to deny him. Also, their schedule is very unpredictable at times and I think they rely on us in ways that will be very inconvenient for them to have to cover in some other way. And I do like them, even if it is sometimes difficult. I suspect that she is escalating still (”working herself into a tizzy” is John’s description), but I’m also guessing that there will be some attempted contact within the next couple of days. The problem is, it will probably still be in attack mode, and I’m not going to be able to deal with that very well if it is.

This is one of those occasions when I would be really good at giving perspective and advice – if only it weren’t me. I am too close to the situation, and my maternal protective mode is in overdrive.

So I’m asking you – especially parents – to tell me anything that occurs to you as you read this. It will give me a way to bracket and look at it from different sides. I would really appreciate your thoughts and advice.

Perspective? Comments? Suggestions?

The semaphore (four rotating disks of light) atop the Adobe tower in downtown San Jose is indeed transmitting a message.

Never heard of a semaphore? There are multiple meanings. In programming, it concerns methodology for mutual exclusion (see “excluded middles” below), parallel processing, and synchronization.

Predating the electrical telegraph, the semaphore was defined as an optical telegraph that conveyed information via visual signals – towers with blades, shutters, flags and so on.

semaphore

I wonder to what extent the Adobe semaphore might be performing the first function? It performs the second as a kind of street art – well, I think that’s the purposeless purpose, but one can never be sure. And that’s the whole fun of it.

Communication and information processing are inherent to both meanings. I could go on and on on here on topics like entropy and noise and Maxwell’s Demon and so forth, but this is already going to be a long post.

Mark Snesrud and Bob Mayo cracked the code of the Adobe Semaphore. The message is the entire text of the Thomas Pynchon novel The Crying of Lot 49.

One almost can’t help wondering about the process by which such a text would have been chosen. I suspect it was really just a kind of postmodern viral “resonance” – and yeah, it’s cool – but there is a sinister tone underlying this novel. You’d almost have to close your eyes to the possibility of other meanings in that performative choice. Are they interpeting themselves, then, as the “tower” of the novel? Or the postal underground? Or the command-control, or the shadows, or the lines of flight? Or all, or none?

The 1965 Pynchon novel is a serious satire of the military industrial complex and communication systems of command and control. It’s full of playfulness and paranoia, but the larger theme is the tendency of informational chaos to multiply under the pressure of increasing attempts at control.

Ultimately, the reader is forced into the position of making many of the interpretive decisions; people who limit themselves to literalist readings had best avoid this one. It’s not as good a novel as Gravity’s Rainbow – and in some ways it’s harder to understand – but it’s classic Pynchon, and a good place to start.

My favorite passage from the book (pp. 179-182, only two paragraphs!):

Yet she knew, head down, stumbling along over the cinderbed and its old sleepers, there was still that other chance. That it was all true. That Inverarity had only died, nothing else. Suppose, God, there really was a Tristero then and that she had come upon it by accident. If San Narciso and the estate were really no different from any other town, any other estate, then by that continuity she might have The Tristero anywhere in her Republic, through any of a hundred lightly-concealed entranceways, a hundred alienations, if only she’d looked. She stopped a minute between the steel rails, raising her head as if to sniff the air. Becoming conscious of the hard, strung presence she stood on — knowing as if maps had been flashed for her on the sky how these tracks ran on into others, others, knowing how they laced, deepened, authenticated the great night around her. If only she’d looked. She remembered now old Pullman cars, left where the money’d run out or the customers vanished, amid green farm flatnesses where clothes hung, smoke lazed out of jointed pipes. Were the squatters there in touch with others, through Tristero; were they helping carry forward that 300 years of the house’s disinheritance? Surely they’d forgotten by now what it was the Tristero were to have inherited; as perhaps Oedipa one day might have. What was left to inherit? That America coded in Inverarity’s testament, whose was that? She thought of other, immobilized freight cars, where the kids sat on the floor planking and sang back, happy as fat, whatever came over the mother’s pocket radio; of other squatters who stretched canvas for lean-tos behind smiling billboards along all the highways, or slept in junkyards in the stripped shells of wrecked Plymouths, or even, daring, spent the night up some pole in a lineman’s tent like caterpillars, swung among a web of telephone wires, living in the very copper rigging and secular miracle of communication, untroubled by the dumb voltages flickering their miles, the night long, in the thousands of unheard messages. She remembered drifters she had listened to, Americans speaking their language carefully, scholarly, as if they were in exile from somewhere else invisible yet congruent with the cheered land she lived in; and walkers along the roads at night, zooming in and out of your headlights without looking up, too far from any town to have a real destination. And the voices before and after the dead man’s that had phoned at random during the darkest, slowest hours, searching ceaseless among the dial’s ten million possibilities for that magical Other who would reveal herself out of the roar of relays, monotone litanies of insult, filth, fantasy, love whose brute repetition must someday call into being the trigger for the unnameable act, the recognition, the Word.

How many shared Tristero’s secret, as well as its exile? What would the probate judge have to say about spreading some kind of legacy among them all, all those nameless, maybe as a first installment? Oboy. He’d be on her ass in a microsecond, revoke her letters testamentary, they’d call her names, proclaim her through all Orange Country as a redistributionist and pinko, slip the old man from Warpe, Wistfull, Kubitschek and McMingus in as administrator de bonis non and so much baby for code, constellations, shadow-legatees. Who knew? Perhaps she’d be hounded someday as far as joining Tristero itself, if it existed, in its twilight, its aloofness, its waiting. The waiting above all; if not for another set of possibilities to replace those that had conditioned the land to accept any San Narciso among its most tender flesh without a reflex or a cry, then at least, at the very least, waiting for a symmetry of choices to break down, to go skew. She had heard all about excluded middles; they were bad shit, to be avoided; and how had it ever happened here, with the changes once so good for diversity? For it was now like walking among matrices of a great digital computer, the zeroes and ones twinned above, hanging like balanced mobiles right and left, ahead, thick, maybe endless. Behind the hieroglyphic streets there would either be a transcendent meaning or only the earth. In the songs Miles, Dean, Serge and Leonard sang was either some fraction of the truth’s numinous beauty (as Mucho now believed) or only a power spectrum. Tremaine the Swastika Salesman’s reprieve from holocaust was either an injustice, or the absence of a wind; the bones of the GI’s at the bottom of Lake Inverarity were there either for a reason that mattered to the world, or for skin divers and cigarette smokers. Ones and zeros. So did the couples arrange themselves. At Verperhaven House either an accommodation reached, in some kind of dignity, with the Angel of Death, or only death and the daily, tedious preparations for it. Another mode of meaning behind the obvious, or none. Either Oedipa in the orbiting ecstasy of a true paranoia, or a real Tristero. For there either was some Tristero beyond the appearance of the legacy America, or there was just America and if there was just America then it seemed the only way she could continue, and manage to be at all relevant to it, was as an alien, unfurrowed, assumed full circle into some paranoia.