Pololū Valley

     On January first 2011 my traveling companions (most of them family) and I took a road trip and then a hike down into a tropical valley on the north-east side of Hawaii. This valley, called Pololū, is one of several that descends from the big island's oldest volcano, Kohala. Due to its age and long inactivity, Kohala is home to an impressive rain forest and was also a home to native Hawaiians from nearly the earliest time that Polynesians arrived on them. The series of valleys are each basically storm drains for the rain forest that dominates the mountain; this makes them ideal for agricultural and static communities due to the constant inflow of freshwater and easy access to the ocean. This place is truly dominated by its own history and culture, but possesses relatively few of the part and parcel that are commonly associated by those two things. I felt like I'd wandered into a valley of forgotten gods. Undeniably human, but decidedly distinct.

  

    The hike down into the valley was short and steep, covering about five-hundred feet of elevation over around one-half of a mile. The trail itself is not so much a trail anymore as it it a poorly maintained creek-bed; the frequent rains seems to favor being able to lazily zig-zag their way down into the valley rather than having to tumble straight down as in the days of old. 

Another look into the valley. The mouth of its southern neighbor can be seen as well.

Looking back up a typical section of the trail.

When I die I hope to find myself on familiar paths.

Pine trees grow alongside other tropical plants at the bottom of the valley. 

The pines are referred to commonly as "ironwood pines"

     The presence of pine trees at the bottom of this tropical valley struck me as somewhat odd. Even this tropical variety usually only grows at higher elevations were they are less opposed by the warm-climate-sensitive tropical plants. Just where the hell was I?

 The ocean and the lagoon are only separated by a few feet of beach

    The sand itself is black and very fine, it holds like ash and in a way that's exactly what it is.

The lagoon water is brackish (a mixture of saltwater and freshwater), but had a surprisingly high freshwater content considering its close proximity to the sea. 

Along the beach we encountered shrines constructed out of the lava rock.  

What ancient gods are worshiped here?  

I constructed one such shrine at the foot of a hill on the south side of the lagoon. I took a pumice stone off the beach when I was done. 

My mother warned me that taking things from the beach would lead to misfortune. I laughed and told her that the gods living in this valley were not so materialistic. 

  Those that are especially sensitive to its calls may come to live in the valley for a time and dance with the gods in the night.

Of those that come, a few will be able to hear the music of the gods. They will dance until their ears are burnt of all other sounds. They are the mortal shaman of these ancient forces. After many years they will forget the tongues of their births. We might call this enlightenment, although they would not.  

     I saw a few of these souls watching me from the hills. Others slept, but a few were going about the labors that their mortality necessitated with chilling efficiency and all the concern of men that were already dead. I dared not photograph them. 

     One of the younger shaman spoke a few haunting words to me, revealing what kind of tree would one day grow over my grave. I said nothing, and he said no more. 

     I hope one day to return to Pololū, although not for some time. 

Paprika image-blog

While I really enjoyed the general storyline and themes of Paprika, I couldn't help but pick out several of what I saw as references to other styles, directors and even specific examples of animation within the film. (this being from the same writer/director of Millennium Actress, which I saw as an animated mash-up of various film styles/genres) With that being said I thought I'd make this final blog primarily an image blog in order to try and point out the similarities I saw, and also just to try something I haven't really done. I wasn't always able to find ideal images to use, but I think they work alright

here goes 

    

I saw an eerie resemblance between the chairman from Paprika and Kim from Ghost in the Shell 2: Innocence. Both characters creeped me out. 

   

 The Chairman's "nightmare form" also reminded me of the Night Walker from Miyazaki's Princess Mononoke

  

In fact, most of Kon's "spirits" (if you will) just kind of generally reminded me of Miyazaki's 

(a lot of the early parade-dream sequences are silly and nonsensical, possibly a reference to the goof-ball Saturday morning cartoons of many a child-hood) 

  

In a less specific context, Tokita's robot transformation may very well be a reference to the mecha sub-genre of anime 

Disney. 

Your guess is as good as mine on this one. why butterflies? 

There are probably more that I missed. 

I see this as, among other things, the film equivalent to literature's mash-up. I think it's pretty interesting to see what new ideas emerge from combing things in new ways; although in regards to this also being a commentary on how different styles interact I am admittedly a bit lost.

also, what do we make of the concept of the "alter-ego" presented in this film. are we really that separate in our dreams?  

ghost in the shell blog for 313

I’m in trouble now –after reading part (I’m working on it) of the manga for Akira, and realizing how much insight I gained from it, and then to not have that with Ghost in the Shell definitely makes me want to read the manga versions of all of these films.


I do not have time.


Anyway, it probably goes without saying that I have several questions left over after watching the film, here goes.


Something called a “ghost” is mentioned multiple times throughout the film (a major theme really) but I am unclear as to what one is. My best guess is that it is one’s persona within the net, an avatar of sorts. This concept is muddled, however, by adding the idea of a soul, something that is also mentioned and quantifiable apparently. (characters discuss whether a cyborg has a soul in a way that seems to be decidable by logical procession… although they do not seem to reach a conclusion.) Is this the same thing as a ghost –something that all cyber-constructs seem to possess-- and is the net also an afterlife of sorts? Or is there a distinction between a soul and a ghost. I feel like it is worth noting that it is not debated whether or not non-augmented humans have a soul, although it seems implied that they do not have ghosts.


Next, don’ t cyborgs know their own strength?

Great time to try and be a human Motoko, that's going to leave a mark.

And finally, as an open question, any thoughts on the puppet master’s arguments for machines as life forms? I personally don’t even know where to start with this one, but I think it might be worth coming back to for the paper. His (its) arguments about DNA being a memory-machine seem pretty sound to me.


Anyway, a few other thoughts,


Motoko seemed incredibly similar to the character of Molly from W. Gibson’s Neuromancer and Napier also definitely hints at this. Her unblinking eyes are basically an equivalent to Molly’s surgically attached lenses that cover her eyes. It seems to me that when creating any kick-ass female assassin characters in cyberpunk settings, Gibson definitely deserves a nod. Pair that up with P.K. Dicks “Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?” and I think you’ve got the better part of the inspiration for this film nailed down. (Pris’ s existential crisis + Molly’s deadliness – sex = Motoko, imo).

Sorry cowboy, looks like the future belongs to the girls.

Something that really stood out to me in this film was the scene showing cuts of the city from the perspective of the canals.

somewhere around here...

I was stuck by the bobbing of the boats on the water, creating the illusion of breathing bodies, alongside the images of the mannequins in the storefronts. I feel like there’s a huge message here, especially if we think of ships in their rather classical metaphorical status, as vessels made to contain and protect souls. There are places we just cannot go without ships. In a sense, the vessels (the shell) is the true life form in such a harsh technological time, and the human within it is merely a puppet to be posed or disposed of.

untitled.

The first assignment for 351. one of the first times I've written (obviously a very short piece) a main female character. on the whole, it's pretty cliche.

She hadn’t been afraid her whole life, but at the same time, her fear had no distinguishable point of origin. In a sense, she had been afraid for as long as she could remember. This fear was certainly intangible; although even to call it irrational would seem to be an overstatement. There was no reason for her fear to exist, so in way, there was no reason for it to cease to exist either. Whenever she was alone in the house at night she found herself routinely opening every door, turning on every light, and then methodically locking down the whole house room by room to be sure it was empty. She never really knew what she was looking for, but looking for it was the only thing that could even partially quell the entirety of the fear, that of it finding her first. What made it infinitely worse was that she could never ask anyone for help. The great wisdom of human logic: “it isn’t real” was of no use to her. It was incredibly real in the way only fear can become real; completely confined to the limits of an individual. For hours at a time it would consume her waking mind; fighting herself, fighting it, and never being able to tell the difference. In the end, her war died with a breeze through her window in the middle of the night. She woke up and knew that it was as close as it had ever been, but she also knew that it was as close as it could get. She hadn’t defeated or destroyed her fear but had instead harnessed it. A strange energy to be put to whatever use she saw fit.

an early take on augmented realities.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-6yantixZ5c&ob=av3e

Apparently I cannot embed this video, but watch it anyway. I could say that any video in itself is an augmented reality, but Damon Albarn and Jamie Hewlett have, I feel, taken this idea to a different level. The organization of the visual aspect of their music calls up an interesting question; how do you work a musical group based on cartoon characters, but then make that group rely heavily on the contributions of guest (real) musicians? This is not the first time that the Gorrilaz have tackled this problem, but what is interesting about this particular video as an augmented reality is the interaction between creation and creator. In this case Shaun Ryder, who collaborated on the song with Albarn and Hewlett, has been given the role of "soundsystem" to the Gorillaz. The metaphor is not incredibly complicated; the relationship of artist and art is not one of a god lording over his subjects, but more of a dynamic of push and pull. True, without Albarn and Hewlett the Gorrilaz would not exist, but without the Gorillaz, who would Albarn and Hewlett be? Speculation is pointless, what I am trying to get at is that this relationship has evolved to become something that neither party can easily be separated from, if at all. But there is also a third part of this dynamic, the audience. What is transferred to us from this interaction? A message maybe, or perhaps stimulation on some level, certainly not code-able to words, but necessary none the less. We get a unique opportunity to shape, on some level, where the creative flow will take the artist and her art, but we ourselves cannot render what she can. Still; it is not the artist that gives us what we need, she only gives her creation what it initially needs, then the transfer takes place.

This relationship is all very parasitic of course. It took me a long time to get a handle on what Serres refers to as "noise", "static" or "interruption". Now I think I will simply call these things the audience.

Paragraphs

To write. If we write about the form and function of our own writing we are writing about writing in entirety. Which word? Which sentence? Which paragraph? Any and all. Communication can and does take place without writing, and even within writing grammatical rules are not by any means requirements for effective communication. We started with words; simple vocal mechanisms used to attempt to convey single thoughts or ideas. From there they got more complex, definitions built on definitions. Now maybe we need sentences to allow words to work in combinations to reveal specific meanings. Sentences became cliché, metaphors grew and expanded. Is the point of an entire paragraph just to try and communicate a few key words whose simplicity somehow got lost to time? Or are word perhaps complex by nature, and the development of grammar is nothing less than brilliant technological innovation that allows us to expand our use of words? What, to try and be as specific as possible, is a paragraph?

A paragraph can be a single sentence.

But a paragraph can also be an unlimited number of sentences. A paragraph is meant to show a greater division in thought than a sentence can show. The question that arises, however, is how great that thought division needs to be?

Say I start another paragraph right here. Is that warranted? It seems to be mostly a stylistic decision in this sense. But a paragraph is more than just style, most of the time a significant amount of thought goes into a paragraph, even with this choppy architecture, I am trying to prove a point.

The origin of the word “paragraph” is Greek, and means “written beside”, but the etymology, as fun as it is, isn’t terribly useful. The origin of “paragraph” simply describes “paragraph”, which is no more than an abstract way to refer to paragraphs, those strange chunks of writing that can include as many sentences as the author sees fit. Besides, “written beside” what, other paragraphs? But maybe this is something that we can’t examine abstractly, or at least not effectively; but luckily it is not too difficult to find where paragraphs have been used in non abstract way

A parable (whose etymology is very close to that or “paragraph”, conveniently enough) is supposed to be a story that leads us to single lesson at the end; a moral of a few words or maybe just a single word. In a similar way, I feel, to how a paragraph can lead us to a certain idea or ideas contained within. Does the moral help make sense of the parable, or does the parable help make sense of the moral? Kafka admits to two and one examination, in The Complete Stories and Borges also seems to have two in his Collected Fictions. I also admit to two in my personal writing, but, this being where admitting comes in, I wrote a few other parables that I didn’t admit to being parables. Are they still parables? Do they still have morals? Of the two I admit to, I don’t really consider one of them a real parable, and I could not tell you a moral if you asked. With this in mind, I must wonder if Borges and Kafka meant all their parables to be parables, and also whether or not any other parables and morals are hidden throughout their texts. Granted, we could say anything is a parable if we simply attach a moral to it, so maybe I am asking the wrong questions here. If anything could have a moral, in the eyes of the reader, why designate something as a parable? I might be able to squeeze an answer or two from the last piece of Kafka’s anthology titled “On Parables”. In the first paragraph, Kafka seems to be suggesting that parables are useless because any wisdom offered in them is not translatable to everyday life, but then a dialogue begins over this matter.

“Concerning this a man once said: Why such reluctance? If you only followed the parables you yourselves would become parables and with that rid yourself of all your daily cares.

Another said: I bet that is also a parable.

The first said: You have won.

The second said: But unfortunately only in parable.

The first said: No, in reality: in parable you have lost.”

I have taken the liberty of leaving the quote in its original formatting, five separate paragraphs, as good grammar dictates that we make each line of a different speaker in a dialogue into its own paragraph. Then again, Kafka is not using quotations, and if I am not mistaken they are the indicator for dialogue-paragraph separation. Still, I am certain the Kafka was trying to send some sort of message with this decision. The parable itself is as incomprehensible as any story, and even the moral is not useful in its raw form, but if it can be translated to have some personal value, than the parable, and therefore its moral, will be useful in everyday life. This seems to be a double edged sword though; because once the moral is converted to functional use the parable will be ruined in a way. It will lose its magic, its godliness.

So what does this mean for us as the authors of parables? Does our work have a maximum level of interpretation that, after attained, will cause our writing to eventually be left by the curbside? Or to look at it another way, if we think we have fully understood a piece of writing, what need do we have to ever come back to it? Its immortality is destroyed. Although I do not personally believe that anything I have ever written could be so inexhaustible; in the case of Kafka and Borges how could any of their works not be? Still, they have both written parables, those little stories that people will try to cut up and extract one single lesson from, once that is done, that’s it. Then again, maybe none of this concerns us. We (I will put myself alongside the masters in this case, though I don’t know their minds) don’t write a parable or anything else for that matter in the hopes that it will be forever thought of as non comprehendible piece of eternal literature. As I said in my previous assignment on the sentence, I personally write in the hopes that just maybe one person will be able to take one useful thing from what I have created. I am not entirely concerned with what that thing is, that will be mostly out of my control. So maybe the desire to write parables stems not from an intention of any specific message, but only to alter the process in which that message is discovered.

I feel like I need to go back to a section of the quote in order proceed with where these ideas seem to be taking me. “Why such reluctance? If you only followed the parables you yourselves would become parables…” How exactly does one follow a parable? Are to follow the moral? This is problematic because so often the moral is hidden, and even when we do find it, it does not immediately become clear what to do with it. I think that Kafka has left something out here, something key. This translation, this leap, is one that we must make for ourselves. How does one go about becoming anything? Let’s say, for the sake of example, a baseball player. You cannot just watch baseball to become a baseball player, sure, watching can be valuable to an extent, but you also need to practice. I believe that parables, paragraphs; that writing in general is the same. The piece in question is called “On Parables” after all so although it may be a parable, it is also a hint at how to write them and therefore how to become them. Borges also seems to know what I am talking about, “Defeated by reality, by Spain, don Quixote died in 1614 in the town of his birth. He was survived only a short time by Miguel de Cervantes.” In this piece, also a parable, Borges suggests that a writer lends part, or all of, himself into what he creates. This is what I believe to be the key to unlocking vastly greater sources of written knowledge, by writing them yourself.

“No one else could ever be admitted here, since this gate was made only for you. I am now going to shut it.” (Kafka, 4) I would like to suggest the possibility that because of the subjective nature of interpretation, many of these insights may only be useful to myself. Then I would like to move on to the final bit of wisdom that I feel I can at least try and impart.

Where do these ideas lead us? The parable and the paragraph are open forms. We are free to make what we will of them; both as authors and readers. That is one thing I have noticed as we have scaled out from words to sentences to paragraphs, the more you zoom out the less strict the rules are. The more openly we allow ourselves to write, the more useful our words become. Words, sentences, paragraphs, parables –all are tools of language that are at our disposal. I do not believe that it should be our goal to completely unravel the threads of language and take control of it, but rather to dig in and get as much out of it as we possibly can, and that is what these tools allow us to better accomplish.

an obvious parable.

This is a parable, and sure as the sea is blue it will contain, at some well planned point, a moral. You, gifted reader, may also have already guessed that this parable will also include an intriguing main character whose actions will be central to the revelation of the moral. If I could even be so bold, in my own writing, I would like to name that character as you, gifted reader; now you are the intriguing and gifted main character of your own parable. Congratulations. Although it is true, and let it be known to all that you are highly gifted, you may yet have a thing or two to learn. You might even be aware of this, since you are after all, gifted and intriguing. The lesson that you learn over the course of your journey will be immensely and eternally valuable in its own right, I assure you, but the journey itself will also be quite significant. I must warn you, there may be some danger along the way, the nature of which I cannot entirely predict, but fear not, you will reach the safety of the clearing quite together. Think to yourself for a few moments what you will take with you on this journey, but I will urge you to travel light, for material goods will not hold up well where you're going. If you could pack it all down to but a handful of ideas and concepts, decide what they would be; a few memories of past lessons and journeys may not be a bad idea to take along as well. Arm yourself with your sharpest wit, and guard yourself well with your best problem solving techniques. You will need both. Take nothing at its face value, oh most gifted and intriguing protagonist. Again I assure you that you will survive these trials for the better in the end, but it seems that I have run out of time to talk to you. This is the end of the parable. Did you catch the Moral?