Beauty vs. the Reality of Everyday Life.

 

Trouble sleeping over the last two weeks: waking every three hours, feeling I've slept for days, yet the clock continues to read 3:30 am.

My work is done; most all responsibilities have been met, and with this chased sense of guarantees, this solidity of self, my poised confident persona has gone by the wayside: feeling like a stranger in a strange land.

Received a phone call from my dear friend this morning asking if a scrumptious picnic would be out of the question? Having not eaten properly for days, the invitation seemed like a divine intervention mainly designed for me.

She appeared in front of her driveway holding a true-to-form "picnic basket," sunglasses, and a kind smile.

"Let me drive." she insisted.

We headed towards the country and suddenly arrived next to a river.

Living in city circumstances, cars, petrol, the feeling that one's space will explode at any moment because we all seem to live on top of each other, no room to move, the drive in the country felt like a gift. The river smelled of fresh flowers, and the walker's all smiled.

After a brisk walk, we finally settled next to a deserted old Fern tree. The public walking path was too close for total privacy but far enough to make us feel that we were somewhat alone with each other.

We laid the blanket over the grass, and all at once, the beauty of our surroundings became evident before my eyes.

My friend had made cold Lamb sandwiches with just a hint of mint. The bread was bought at the bakery that morning and tasted like it had just come out of the oven. (There's nothing like fresh bread). Then, reaching into the picnic basket, a bottle of 2000 Cabernet Shiraz and two crystal glasses. The wine and the Lamb were a perfect union, a marriage of the unusual but lovely sort.

As wine and delicious food affect one's outlook on life, the afternoon a perfect temperature, both of us peered out toward the green mountain, she commenting how utterly beautiful the landscape, when, disrupting our reverie of aesthetic vision, a young German Shepherd bounded happily towards our paradise of beauty and perfection, turned around and proceeded to defecate in our ideal world. Her master appeared on the path and looked terribly embarrassed but knew nothing he could say would change things once the dog started.

The young lassie finished her business, turned innocently, smiled at us, and trotted off completely satisfied.

We looked at each other and fell into fits of laughter, to the point of tears, because we both knew life is wonderful, a miracle, but also full of shit.

These experiences make life worth living.

Ray Nayler – The Mountain in the Sea – Review

 

One of the more unusual and unique novels of 2022. Mountain attempts (successfully) at creating a speculative future world of Artificial Intelligence, a planet devastated by war; corporate ownership of governments and all of earth's resources. We're going extinct because of the 'bottom line'. Even slavery is reintroduced, where able bodied men are snatched-up off the streets and sent to fishing boats to further rape the oceans at minimum cost. This is the background of the story. The central concern of the novel is communication with alien species; language, symbolism, empathy and perception.

Nayler writes:

One of the aims of The Mountain in the Sea is to explore the idea of communication with a truly alien species here on earth, one that has developed its own system of symbolic communication. Above all, I wanted to be honest as I could about the complexities of the problem of communication between species.

As said, this is no ordinary novel. The author even stated that he thought about including footnotes and a bibliography.

Indeed, the reader should come away from the text with a greater understanding of linguistics and the major issues confronting the science of Marine Biology. More so, for this reader, the novel explores the notion of consciousness – awareness of oneself or being aware of one's awareness.

Our central character is Dr. Ha Nguyen. She is whisked away to an island in the South Pacific to continue research on the brain, intelligence, habits and behavior of the Octopus. She meets two incredibly advanced AI's who're there to help her with her research and provide security on the island. The AI Evrim, displays exceptional intelligence and empathy. Apart from (their) outer appearance, (they) display human consciousness at an advanced level. Evim's pronouns are 'their' and 'they' and 'them' as the AI's (mind) is made up of several neuron systems firing at once.

At the beginning of each chapter is a long quote from Dr. Nguyen's book, How Oceans Think. These quotes provide greater insight into what exactly the doctor is attempting to achieve

Not only do we not agree on how to measure or recognize consciousness in others, but we are unable to even “prove” it exists in ourselves. Science often dismisses our individual experience – what it feels like to smell an orange, or to be in love – as qualia. We are left with theories and metaphors for consciousness. A stream of experience. A self-referential loop. Something out of nothing. None of these are satisfactory. Definition eludes us.

The famous line from Descartes, I think therefor I am, was the first “modern” attempt at defining consciousness. As the good doctor expresses, however: Definition eludes us.

Dr. Arnkatia Minervudettir-Chan is the genius and creator of the most advanced AI. We also get to read sections of her writing at the beginning of certain chapters. Arnkatia is the person who recruited Dr. Nguyen to study the octopus. Through studying the octopus, its obvious superior intelligence; the research focuses on its communication, only to discover the extent and complexity of its language.

The novel also portrays a dystopic future, run by corporations whose wealth exceeds many countries on the planet, but what will certainly eventuate if we continue to extract earths resources without any thought of her future welfare. For certain, the novel does not portray the “corporation” in a positive light. Profit over the well being of the planet and the well being of our fellow humans will lead no-where but to a dark, and empty oblivion.

Our future welfare is assured if we maintain our humanity.

A wonderful novel.

Dreaming Away

Woke to my alarm clock registered (enough decibels to raise the dead) for terrorist attack or a nuclear explosion.

The problem is that it takes this kind of alarming sound at full volume to bring me back to consciousness after a long sleep. All through my life, sleep and dreams have always been deep, sometimes reaching the depths of the comatose, sleeping through 4pt to 6pt earthquakes while living in California through the eighties. The apartment coming down around us as my girlfriend at the time, panicked and, as always, dramatizing the event like a B-grade actor in a lame seventies film.

Once awake, though, the soul comes alive, and no matter what the hell is happening, self-preservation prevails, scrambling outside while paintings fall off the walls and the ceilings begin to crack. Though my girlfriend was, and probably still is, a drama queen, if she didn’t wake me that morning, I’d have slept through the entire earth-shaking affair.

Remembering a most chilling incident, house-sitting for my boss with my girl friend, shaken awake to a terrified whisper….

“There’s someone in the house.”

Crawling on the floor in the dark, peering around the corner, not seeing anything at first then, a shadow, and the sound of boots on the wood floor of the kitchen…there was not only one person in the house but two or perhaps three.

The kitchen is next to the door to the garage, where my boss, an amateur carpenter, had tools to the worth of thousands.

Crawling again to the front window, their truck was parked outside, as these thieves conveniently stacked my boss’s tools in their vehicle, casually and without fear.

My girlfriend was already on the phone talking to a 911 operator:

“Alright darling, don’t panic! What ever you do, please stay on the phone. Now, tell me your address. Good girl, tell me what is happening now?”

“But we have children in the house! You need to come now, please…”

Watching through the corner on the floor on hands and knees, I could see they were satisfied with their takings. The smaller one of the three, said something that was just out of earshot, but it sounded like,

“Let’s have some fun.”

These thieves, a coven of criminals, all laughed and it was at that moment that my stomach decided to reject everything that had been put into it in the last 24 hours.

While retching, I heard: “ON THE GROUND!”

One of the threesome attempted a getaway over the back fence, hitting it hard, ending up on the ground, handcuffed.

The sound of him smashing against the fence, an extremely loud scrambling bang, at that point I knew that it was finally over.

Interestingly and thankfully, the two young children, aged two and four, slept through the entire harrowing experience.

My boss’s tools were saved and his children were safe, but the question always remains:

What if my girlfriend hadn’t been there at the time?

Would I have slept through the entire ordeal, possibly causing, inadvertently, something terrible, an event much more sinister?

In fact, this is useless speculation, the pointless “what if’s” of a past event.

Sleep is a wondrous, natural and necessary aspect of our lives, mine, unfortunately or otherwise, is all consuming…

Thus I continue to put the alarm at nuclear or terrorist mode because it would be a shame to miss life while sound asleep…dreaming away.

Yukio Mishima – The Sailor who Fell from Grace with the Sea – Review

 

Yukio Mishima (1926-1970) was a novelist, poet, screenwriter, actor, fashion model, right wing militarist and Japanese Nationalist. Probably his most famous novel in the west is Confessions of a Mask. (see my review below) Just as popular is The Sea of Fertility tetralogy,  a collection of four novellas. Mishima predicted that when he finished the last novel of the four, he would meet his death. This became a self fulfilling prophecy when he committed seppuku in November 1970.

The Sailor who Fell (1963) is a beautifully written tale, (the Times called it 'A major work of art') that is at once poetic and under the surface, deeply sociopathic.

The young lad Noboru is the son of a wealthy widow. They live in a seaside town where the boy is fascinated with the great ships, sailors and imagining their adventures. Noboru is a very intelligent boy with strange ideas as to what it means to be human. He belongs to a gang led by a boy they call the Chief. This group have a particular view of existence, mainly despising the lies adults engage in and their weaknesses. One's conscience must be eradicated at all costs because to have one is weak and opposite to “heroic”.

There is a particularly disturbing chapter where the gang engages in the murder of a young animal. Noboru kills the animal and the Chief eviscerates the corpse as a twisted method of removing the fur, skin and muscle to reach the core truth of existence. To practice actions to rid one's conscience to achieve a level of purity of character is insane. (The boy's are practicing to be full blown psychopaths).

Noboru's mother is a wealthy and beautiful woman who inherited a high end clothing store who's clientele are only the wealthy. Since her husbands death she has becomes lonely and finally meets a sailor, where they begin a relationship. Ryuji is a life long serving member of the Japanese merchant Navy. He is only at port for short periods of time, preventing any serious long term relationship.

Noboru discovers a peephole into his mother's bedroom behind his chest of drawers. When his mother and Ryiji are together, he watches them in silence. This kind of voyeurism for a pubescent can be chalked up to mere curiosity. Though Noboru knows it's wrong, revealing this behavior as obvious perversion and the actions of a sexual pervert.

The ending of the novel is a picture of mob psychopathy.

Mishima pushes the boundaries of his subject matter in this novel as he did in Confessions of a Mask. Certainly not for everybody, Mishima's work, however, provokes thought and issues that many would rather not read or talk about. Personally, worth the read.

Confessions of a Mask- review :  https://sychronicity1.blogspot.com/2020/10/yukio-mishima-confessions-of-mask-review.html

Childhood Memory of Lost Time

 

A time in my old neighborhood during the change of the season from spring to summer.

So many years ago, I recalled riding my bike through the fog, closing my eyes, then stopping abruptly because it was too quiet and still. As ten-year-old boys' do, being alone in the dark and fog, mainly when there is no one around, can be terrifying.

On the curb next to my bike, I sat quietly, listening to the sounds of, well, nothing, total silence. The fog turned to a thick, white wall on the curb, and seeing two feet in front of you was impossible.

The thunder and lightning began their diatribe. Finally, I was lost in a cloud.

Panic set in as my orientation was lost... was I to go right or left?

It began to rain, then rain harder as the raindrops hurt my face, so rather than sit there like a scared rabbit, I rode in a direction that I hoped would lead home.

The rain was unrelenting. 

In the distance, I saw multi-colored lights, thus headed in that direction.

I skidded to a stop in front of the house (though never seen this house before) and decided to knock on the door and get some directions. The door was surrounded with lights like it was Christmas, and easy to see through the rain and fog. I rang the doorbell and waited, wet, cold, and shivering.

The door opened, and there stood a strange old lady. Her hair was pure white, swept back in a long ponytail. She looked like a gypsy, with too many earrings and bracelets, too much make-up, and her dressing gown one would associate with hippies. (Of the eastern variety).

Walking into her house, I detected the scent of violets and sandalwood incense...candles sat on every shelf, all lit, burning bright, though the best memory is the room's warmth...I felt safe.

"Sit here, little one." She wrapped a blanket around me.

"What is your name and phone number, so I can call your Mother to come for you?"

I gave her my name and phone number, and she disappeared into another room.

While she was away, an old cat sat on top of an old, overly stuffed chair, yawned, stretched, and meowed at me. Then, the old cat sauntered over and merely sat and continued to stare into my eyes.

"Go away, cat!" I said.

The old woman then entered the room again with a surprised expression.

"I spoke with your mother...how long have you been away from home?"

Strange question, I thought.

"No more than a couple of hours."

She laughed and suddenly turned serious.

"According to your mother, you have been missing for three days, and the police have been looking for you, too."

"Crap, I just got lost in the fog and found this place!"

Then she asked, "Do you know where you are?"

"Yea, Northglenn, where I live..."

She smiled and said,

"Well, little one, you are in Pueblo, over one hundred miles from where you live."

"That can't be right. I've been riding my bike for only a few hours..."

Drinking sweet tea and wrapped in a smelly blanket, my father arrived.

He placed my bike in his trunk and said nothing during the trip home.

Now the rain had stopped (there was no fog), and the evening's last glimmer of light floated in the distance through the windshield of my father's car.

Once home, strangely, my mother did not yell or anything, but put me in the shower, fed me warm chili, and duly sent me to bed.

Over all these years, nothing has been mentioned about this incident again...

Though even today, this experience continues to confound and disturb. 

The Naiad

 

If one attempts to immerse into a certain artist, writer or poet, will discover a theme or motif that casually travels throughout their particular body of work.

The Pre-Raphaelite, J.W. Waterhouse, had at least two obsessions, his model, Muriel Foster, and his focus on water spirits, nymphs, sirens and other mythical water beings.

Although most his female subjects were characters or representations of ancient myths and poems, his model, Muriel Foster, appeared as the main star, the leading lady in all his work. She was the "Marilyn Monroe" of the 19th century art movement...though her true identity was kept secret because of the social mores and hypocrisy’s of the time period.

Muriel was indeed a classical beauty.

This painting, The Naiad, has always intrigued me because the Naiad has the expression of pure wonder and curiosity, almost intently surprised as if the boy is hurt in some way. She has seen a human being for the first time: and luckily, while he sleeps by the river.

What is a Naiad?

Always connected to a body of water, it is their world and they depend on the water for their existence. The ancient Greeks believed after many encounters with these beautiful beings, that they had inspirational powers and the knowledge of healing. Some also believed they could predict the future…they were special divine beings connected with divinity and growth.

I love this painting for many reasons: the beauty of the Naiad and her cautious curious expression as she peers at the half naked human, covered in what appears to be an animal skin: perhaps a leopard or something more mundane.

The Naiad are divine spirits of a natural existence. They are shy, humble and fearful of the out side “real world”. Thus this painting is special as it is a first encounter between the human and the divine. (Of course in the pagan sense).

One of my all time favorites.

Preston & Child – City of Endless Nights – Review

This novel is the next in the series after The Obsidian Chamber. The tale kicks off with the discovery of a gruesome murder by two kids raising havoc in suburban Queens. After egging an old mans car in the middle of winter, he decides to give chase following the boys into a an industrial area. Hiding inside a vacant building, the boys find the naked body of a young woman. This is not an ordinary corpse, though nude and frozen, the body is missing a head.

A familiar character enters the crime scene: Lieutenant Commander Detective Vincent D'Agosta. Reader's are aware of the detective from almost the very beginning of the Pendergast series. He's a no nonsense cop who prefers to play by all the rules. The man puts his heart and soul into every homicide case, sometimes at the detriment of his health and relationships. Pendergast and D'Agosta go way back and now find themselves partnering on a case that should be a simple homicide, but turns out to be something far more insidious.

As partners in an investigation, D'Agosta and Pendergast are like chalk and cheese. Where Pendergast is caviar and expensive Champaign, Vincent is steak and potatoes, drinking a cold beer on a hot day at a baseball game. Their differences seem to compliment each other, and their loyalty and friendship for one another is rock solid.

The decapitated young woman turns out to be a tech billionaires daughter. She had been reported missing a few days prior to her body being discovered. Because the case is now 'high profile', by orders of the mayor, the detectives visit Anton Ozmian, the father of the deceased. Ozmian turns out to be a menacing character, having a violent fit when told of his daughters death. Ozmain takes the term 'wealthy eccentric' to levels never seen before. Because the case is high profile, the pressure and heat from the top is strong, thus solving the case for the NYPD and the FBI is high priority. Then another murder is committed.

In most or all of the Pendergast series is a dogged journalist on the heels of the investigation. Bryce Harriman once worked for the NYT and now works for the Post. The man's ethics are sketchy, but he always seems to get the scoop. When the second victim is found headless, there's talk around town of a serial killer. Because both murders were members of the 1%, Harriman makes a link. There must be a 99% crusader making examples of the 1%. When this story makes the headlines, all of New York's elite are seen fleeing Manhattan in droves.

The mark of a great crime/thriller is it keeps the reader guessing as to the killers identity until the end. This tale is no different. One would never deduce this killer's identity and their motive for the murders.

For fans of this series, this installment will not disappoint. For readers who read City of Endless Night by itself without knowledge of the series will also be entertained from start to finish.