Showing posts with label marshall mcluhan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label marshall mcluhan. Show all posts

Sunday, December 19, 2010

Beyond Hive Consciousness, Part 2


Listen to the sphere...

Jaron Lanier ends his long awaited first book, You Are Not a Gadget: A Manifesto, by trying to explain his gig as a philosopher of the early 21st Century. In doing so, he cannot help but allude to Marshall McLuhan:

The phase of life we call "childhood" was greatly expanded in connection with the rise of literacy, because it takes time to learn to read. [...] It has even been claimed that the widespread acceptance of childhood as a familiar phase of human life only occurred in conjunction with the spread of the printing press. (180)

Lanier takes pains to show a physiological basis for metaphor, for metaphor is the route by which we get closer and closer to the nature of consciousness, and that brings us full circle to Chapter 1.



Sunday, March 28, 2010

Beyond Hive Consciousness, Part 1


Listen to the sphere...

Jaron Lanier begins his long awaited first book, You Are Not a Gadget: A Manifesto, by trying to explain his day job as a technologist of the late 20th Century. In doing so, he cannot help but allude to Marshall McLuhan:

We make up extensions to your being, like remote eyes and ears (webcams and mobile phones) and expanded memory (the world of details you can search for online). (5)

This would have been yesterday's news to McLuhan, whose 1964 opus, Understanding Media, is subtitled "The Extensions of Man." McLuhan understood well that Lanier and his technologist coworkers were merely extending human organs in new, virtual ways.

Lanier, however, is aware of his ironic position, and takes pains to separate himself from the hive mentality that dominates Web 2.0 and all of its adherents (including contributors to the blogosphere). And since his own subtitle is "A Manifesto," which would seem to indicate a high level of public importance, Lanier provides a self-help list of do's and don'ts for those addicted to the superficiality of Web 2.0 reductionism:

  • Don't post anonymously unless you really might be in danger.
  • If you put effort into Wikipedia articles, put even more effort into using your personal voice and expression outside of the wiki to help attract people who don't yet realize that they are interested in the topics you contributed to.
  • Create a website that expresses something about who you are that won't fit into the template available to you on a social networking site.
  • Post a video once in a while that took you one hundred times more time to create than it takes to view.
  • Write a blog post that took weeks of reflection before you heard the inner voice that needed to come out.
  • If you are twittering, innovate in order to find a way to describe your internal state instead of trivial external events, to avoid the creeping danger of believing that objectively described events define you, as they would define a machine.
  • (21)

That's some good advice. If we all adhered to Lanier's dicta, we would be spared the vituperative trash that infects topical forums, Wikipedia would be useful background to the real story, websites would be windows into our souls, YouTube would be worth watching, more blogs would be worth reading, and Twitter might actually be interesting. Imagine the kind of Singularity we could then produce!

In 1991, Brian Eno famously quipped that "Future TV will be made with simple equipment, unqualified people, small budgets, and bad taste." Lanier sees the fulfillment of that prophecy in a section called "Schlock Defended." Again, he can see the irony of YouTube, and suggests that, while it could--and should--be of much higher quality, the motivation to create schlock is inarguably human.

Lanier then takes on computationalism in his chapter titled "I Am a Contrarian Loop," an obvious spoof on our own Doug Hofstadter's work. Lanier critiques the three "flavors" of computationalism that are supposed to result in the Singularity--the awakening of the web. First there's the notion that sheer quantities of data held in databases such as Google's will somehow wake up to some kind of cosmic consciousness. A second flavor--that proferred by Hofstadter--requires self-aware recursion--a "strange loop"--in order to qualify as consciousness. Finally, there is Web 2.0 computationalism, which holds to a new twist on the Turing test: if you buy music based on the recommendations of the hive "then the hive is effectively a person" (156). Lanier then suggests that human evolution is, in fact, realistic computationalism, and we could construct a myth, a creation tale, "to think computationally that isn't as vulnerable to the confusion brought about by our ideas about ideal computers" (157). For McLuhan, myth "is the mode of simultaneous awareness of a complex group of causes and effects" (McLuhan, 1962, 266). This "complex group of causes and effects" is simply another way to express Lanier's realistic computationalism.


To be continued...

[NOTE: This blog post was four weeks in the making. Part 2 could be four more. :dj]




Sunday, August 9, 2009

The Solemn Cadence


I recently encountered McLuhan's concept of tetrads, which present "not sequential but simultaneous facets of media effects" -- that is, "they are right-hemisphere in character, and each tetrad comprises two figures and two grounds in proportion to each other" (McLuhan and McLuhan, 1988, 127).
This led me to re-read R. Buckminster Fuller's section on the tetrahedron in Synergetics, in which he writes:
The tetrahedron occurs conceptually independent of events and independent of relative size. By tetrahedron, we mean the minimum thinkable set that would subdivide Universe and have interconnectedness where it comes back upon itself. The four points have six interrelatednesses. There are two kinds of number systems involved: four being prime number two and six being prime number three. So there are two very important kinds of oscillating quantities numberwise, and they begin to generate all kinds of fundamentally useful mathematics. The basic structural unit of physical Universe quantation, tetrahedron has the fundamental prime number oneness. (1982, 333)
In pondering the relationship between tetrads and tetrahedra, I recalled my own previous work on iambic tetrameter, the four-foot line that has sometimes been called "the solemn cadence." I present it here as preface to some sort of hermeneutic, to follow.


The Solemn Cadence


Introduction


Is there some force inherent in a four-foot line of rising meter that lends greatness to poetry written in iambic tetrameter? I want to suggest that there is. Consider this: Despite the preponderance of iambic pentameter in English poetry, a disproportionate number of the poems we call great are written in iambic tetrameter. Consider this: Poets respond to one another in four-footed lines; even Marlowe, for all of his blank verse, is best remembered, both in anthologies and poetic responses, for "The Passionate Shepherd to His Love," written in quatrains of iambic tetrameter. Consider this: Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Poet Laureate, would use the meter in quatrains rhyming abba to produce what may well be the most powerful poetry in the English language: "In Memoriam, A.H.H." How is it that great poetry is so often written in rhymed quatrains of iambic tetrameter?

To seek an answer to this question I will briefly discuss versification in general, then iambic tetrameter and long metered quatrains such as the In Memoriam stanza in particular. I will analyze poetic responses written in iambic tetrameter, then look at what writers in other genres have to say about iambic tetrameter before examining how that meter may be perceived more easily by the brain, thus allowing it to impact the mind more readily.


Background


T.S. Eliot wrote that "the conscious problems with which one is concerned in the actual writing [of poetry] are more those of a quasi-musical nature, in the arrangement of metric and pattern, than of a conscious exposition of ideas" (qtd in Ferguson, Salter, and Stallworthy lxi). The craft of creating this quasi-musical nature is called versification, which consists of four primary components: rhythm, meter, rhyme, and form — each of which contributes to the repetitious nature of poetry. The first component, rhythm, is concerned with the sequence in which emphasized syllables are heard by the human ear. Though there are multiple theories on how many gradations of emphasis are actually perceived, it is safe to say that there are at least two: stressed and unstressed. Thus we may scan a line of language, poetic or not, and note the pattern of stressed and unstressed syllables as in this line by Tennyson:

I held it truth, with him who sings

in which the first syllable of each pair is unstressed, the second is stressed. A regular, that is, repeating pattern of stressed and unstressed syllables produces meter, the recurrence of approximately equal units in a poem's rhythm (lxii). There are four metrical systems used in English poetry: accentual, accentual-syllabic, syllabic, and quantitative — of which accentual-syllabic is by far the most common (lxii). Because I am here concerned primarily with iambic tetrameter, I will discuss only accentual-syllabic meter in this paper, and will not discuss the other three. Accentual-syllabic meter takes as its basic unit the metrical foot, a set of two or three stressed and/or unstressed syllables (lxiii). According to Ferguson, Salter, and Saltworthy, the six possible permutations of metrical feet are:

FootDescription
IambicOne unstressed syllable followed by one stressed syllable
TrochaicOne stressed syllable followed by one unstressed syllable
AnapesticTwo unstressed syllables followed by one stressed syllable
DactylicOne stressed syllable followed by two unstressed syllables
SpondaicTwo successive syllables of equally strong stress
PyrrhicTwo successive syllables of equally light stress


This system of English metrics is not without its detractors, however. Robert Wallace, in his essay "Meters in English," claims there is only one meter, accentual-syllabic, and within that one meter there is an iambic norm. All other variants are the result of feminine endings, the placement of an extra syllable on a line, or decapitation, the omission of the first syllable on an otherwise iambic line. Wallace accepts anapests and dactyls as legitimate substitutions to the iambic norm, but argues that anapestic, trochaic, and dactylic meters do not exist (Baker 4-28). I disagree, as do Ferguson, Salter, and Saltworthy, but here I am concerned only with Wallace's assertion of an iambic norm in English poetry. I believe such a norm is demonstrable beyond debate.

Once the meter is established, a poet may adhere to a specific line length throughout the poem. The most common line lengths in English poetry are:

Line LengthDescription
MonometerOne metrical foot per line
DimeterTwo metrical feet per line
TrimeterThree metrical feet per line
TetrameterFour metrical feet per line
PentameterFive metrical feet per line
HexameterSix metrical feet per line
HeptameterSeven metrical feet per line
OctameterEight metrical feet per line

Of these fixed line lengths, pentameter is by far the most popular (Ferguson, Salter, and Saltworthy lxv) and is the basis for several important forms in English poetry: blank verse (unrhymed iambic pentameter) and heroic couplets (rhymed pairs of iambic pentameter lines). This brings up another component of repetition in English poetry — rhyme — the concurrence of the last stressed vowel and all speech sounds following that vowel (lxix). While not devaluing the importance of rhyme, I am not going to discuss it at length here because I am concerned primarily with meter, but I do want to discuss rhyme in terms of several forms that I consider paramount in English poetry, especially various forms of quatrains, poetic stanzas of four lines each. Quatrains, whether rhymed or not, are the most commonly used stanzas in English poetry, but themselves fall into several types, based on meter, line lengths, and rhyme scheme. The most common quatrain is the ballad stanza with alternating lines of iambic tetrameter and iambic trimeter, often rhyming abcb or, less commonly, abab. The ballad stanza is epitomized in Samuel Taylor Coleridge's literary ballad, "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner," as well as many of Emily Dickinson's poems. When the second and fourth lines of the ballad stanza are lengthened to iambic tetrameter those quatrains are known as long meter and may be seen in Thomas Hardy's "Channel Firing" (lxxii). Finally, a long meter quatrain rhyming abba is known as the In Memoriam stanza, as it was epitomized by Tennyson's "In Memoriam, A.H.H."

This long diversion into the mechanical elements of poetry is important because each element — rhythm, meter, rhyme, and form — contributes more or less to the repetitive quality of any poem. Even irregular forms or open forms, so called free verse, rely completely on these four components for their prosody, their versification, their rendering of prose into poetry. My argument is that greatness in English poetry is (aside from the poem's subject) largely a matter of strict adherence to short repetitive units, especially the long metered quatrain. In confirmation of this thesis, let us now look at several of the most important poems in the English canon.


Confirmation


In spite of the preponderance of poems written in iambic pentameter, it may be argued that the greatest poems in the canon are all written in iambic tetrameter. I believe greatness in poetry may be measured by the response to a given poem, and that response can be quantified in two major ways: first, the degree to which a poem is anthologized, that is, how often editors of collected works intending to demonstrate the most remarkable specimens of the craft include a particular poem in their anthologies; and second, the degree to which other great poets respond to a particular poem.

It has been said that the three most anthologized poems of their respective eras are "The Passionate Shepherd to His Love" by Christopher Marlowe, "I Wandered Lonely As a Cloud" by William Wordsworth, and "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost. To this list I would add "In Memoriam A.H.H." by Alfred, Lord Tennyson as it is now excerpted in every anthology of poetry and Victorian literature that I have encountered, which are many. This seems somewhat strange when one considers the miles and miles of blank verse that Marlowe wrote, including his many plays, or the many pentameter sonnets of William Shakespeare, or the fact that Wordsworth wrote "The Prelude" in iambic pentameter. How is it that the poems most often anthologized in their respective times are those written in iambic tetrameter? Well, one might suggest that poems written in quatrains of long meter are typically short or easily excerpted, and therefore lend themselves more readily to books of collected works. This may well be true, but I believe there other factors compelling editors to include these poems in their anthologies. First, poems of this form are readily committed to memory. Second, they are set to music more often than other forms. And third, they are often written to memorialize the dead and thus hold a special place in the hearts of editors and their readers. These three factors are not unrelated. As I will soon show, the musical quality of these poems is precisely what makes them easier to memorize, and is also precisely what endears them to editors and readers alike.

The second major way in which poetic greatness may be measured is by the number of responses that other artists make to a given piece of poetry or form. To discuss this, I will first look at several responses to "The Passionate Shepherd to His Love" by Christopher Marlowe, which is included in Appendix A, below.

In "The Passionate Shepherd," Marlowe uses long metered quatrains rhyming aabb to create a pastoral poem in which a mythical universe is set up and everything surrounding the passionate shepherd is imbued with beauty unmatched by anything found on this planet, a place where "shepherds feed their flocks, / By shallow rivers to whose falls / Melodious birds sing madrigals." Sir Walter Ralegh took exception to this view, and took the point of view of the passionate shepherd's love but retained the form when he responded with "The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd" (Appendix B, below). Ralegh reminds Marlowe that all of these beauteous material things will fade with age, "But could youth last, and love still breed, / Had joys no date, nor age no need, / Then these delights my mind might move / To live with thee, and be thy love." John Donne, possibly the smartest of the English poets, then responds with a complex fishing metaphor (see Appendix C, below) in which the poet is himself ensnared by his love: "For thou thyself art thine own bait, / That fish, that is not catched thereby, / Alas, is wiser far than I." Finally, C. Day Lewis responds to all three poets simultaneously with the second of his "Two Songs" (Appendix D, below). In his caustic critique of pre-World War II reality, Lewis begins with the first two lines of Marlowe's original poem, "Come live with me, and be my love, / And we will some new pleasures prove" but, rather than taking the voice of his love interest, Lewis' narrator remarks on the environment, the "sour canals" by which the couple sits and hopes "to hear some madrigals." It is not time alone that hinders Lewis but the times themselves for "Hunger shall make thy modest zone / And cheat fond death of all but bone — / If these delights thy mind may move, / Then live with me and be my love." Through these four poems, four great poets have led us from a scene of pastoral beauty, through a reminder that beauty fades with age and is in itself a trap, to a world in which there is no beauty whatsoever. And they did it all using long metered quatrains rhyming aabb.

Another poem that recent poets often respond to is Tennyson's "In Memoriam A.H.H." Tennyson uses abba quatrains of iambic tetrameter to create what I believe is the most important single poem in the English language. It is important because of its self-conscious use of memory, in which, ultimately, all poetry takes place. Today, we usually translate the Latin in memoriam as in remembrance, but I believe Tennyson is referring to the first definition of memoria, which is simply memory. Tennyson is not so much remembering his friend Arthur Hallam in the past as he is living with Hallam in his own memory, which is fully alive in the poet's present mind. The relationship between thought and memory is reciprocal. Neuropsychologist J.W. Brown describes it this way:

Thought and memory are different terms for a common process. Thinking is a way of characterizing certain aspects of memory, while remembering is a way of characterizing certain forms of thought. (99)

We see this in the interaction that takes place when Tennyson reads letters from Hallam while in the process of writing "In Memoriam." The poet reflects upon his friend, that is, he engages with that memory, such that "The dead man touch'd me from the past, / And all at once it seem'd at last / The living soul was flash'd on mine [...] but ah, how hard to frame / In matter-moulded forms of speech, / Or ev'n for intellect to reach / Thro' memory that which I became" (XCV). Tennyson reads Hallam into memory, comes to understand that unification of mind — memory and thought — becomes one with his "strange friend" and expresses his thoughts in poetic verse.

It is through poetry, then, that Tennyson extends his memory, which now includes Hallam as well as himself, into perpetuity. Tennyson refers to this potential in section VIII, written near the beginning of the poem's sixteen-year incubation, when he places "this poor flower of poesy" on Hallam's tomb, "That if it can it there may bloom" (VIII). Tennyson is recording his own thoughts and his memories of Hallam. That text becomes a poetic event when an engaged reader encounters it and reads it into memory. The reader can then access and include that memory in future thoughts. Hallam and Tennyson are now one in the reader — past, present, and to be — and it is only through the function of memory that this afterlife can occur.

Recent responses to "In Memoriam" include Craig Arnold's "Ubi Sunt . . . ?" (Appendix E, below), in which the 1999 winner of the Yale Series of Younger Poets eulogizes a deceased poet of his own time. He remarks upon his mentor, a "poet who could smooth / the language like a sheet over / the body of a dying lover, / who made me realize how soothe / meant show the truth." Arnold is talking about craft, the craft of utilizing olden forms to contain ideals that are themselves ageless. After a recent reading of his work, I asked Arnold how he came to choose the In Memoriam stanza for his elegy, especially that particular meter. He said, "I just like the pulse, the way it swings." While I had been hoping for a more academic response, his statement points out the musical qualities of iambic tetrameter, qualities to which I will soon return.

But poets are not the only ones to respond to iambic tetrameter — musicians and novelists, too, have responded in their own ways. In 1916, Charles Hubert Hastings Parry set William Blake's "And Did Those Feet" to music, called it "Jerusalem" and created one of the most popular hymns in the Anglican hymnal. It was even covered by Emerson, Lake, and Palmer and released on their 1973 album, Brain Salad Surgery. In Middlemarch, novelist George Eliot refers to iambic tetrameter as the "solemn cadence" (210). In Tess of the d'Urbervilles, Thomas Hardy refers to the musical qualities of iambic tetrameter when he has Angel Clare recall and ponder a stanza from "In Memoriam" itself:

Leave thou thy sister, when she prays,
    Her early Heaven, her happy views;
    Nor thou with shadow'd hint confuse
A life that leads melodious days.
He had occasionally thought the counsel less honest than musical; but he gladly conformed to it now (201).

Hardy, through Angel Clare, is remarking not only on the cadence of iambic tetrameter, but also on its power to convince, its power to stay in one's memory and its power to influence one's life, a life that takes place, of course, entirely in memory. Edgar Allan Poe also noted the importance of music in poetry when he said:

Contenting myself with the certainty that music, in its various modes of meter, rhythm, and rhyme, is of so vast a moment in poetry as never to be wisely rejected — is so vitally important an adjunct, that he is simply silly who declines its assistance — I will not now pause to maintain its absolute essentiality (qtd. in Baker v).

But if Poe did not feel compelled to discuss the musical qualities essential to poetry, I do. Boomsliter, Creel, and Hastings have studied the relationship of perceiver to perception, and point to findings that "the mind not only 'craves measure,' but requires it in order to have data usable by perception and memory" (200). They go on to describe how that process works in poems as units of expectancy patterns: "When we speak of a stanza as an expectancy pattern we mean that the organization allows us to predict one part from another, and that in fact we do predict. The metrical stanza arouses expectation and then satisfies it. Rhyme often serves to mark the target of expectancy" (203). They go on to discuss the human brain's desire for expectancy patterns in order to make sense of the world:

A brain has a marvelous memory, which works effortlessly, and a very efficient kind of access to what is stored there. But a brain is not a quick processor. [...] We should assume that slowness and confusion of patterns in auditory sequence is normal for a brain. We escape the confusion in speech and music because they are designed for cheating, they are the domain of prefabricated system, based on efficient principles, organized and stored in memory. [...] Rhythmic organization is in the nervous system of the perceiver. It is a tool that he is using to construct a unity, and this tool is used constantly. It is an aspect of syntax that serves organization of meaning in poetry, in daily speech, in music, and in many other activities (205).

We see now that Poe was not merely waxing philosophical in his discussion of the musical qualities of poetry. Musical poetry allows the brain to more easily process the incoming information such that greater meaning may be perceived more easily..


Proposition


Before discussing Milton's versification, Samuel Johnson found it necessary to make the following statement about rhythm in poetry:

However minute the employment may appear, of analysing lines into syllables, and whatever ridicule may be incurred by a solemn deliberation upon accents and pauses, it is certain, that without this petty knowledge no man can be a poet; and that from the proper disposition of single sounds results that harmony that adds force to reason, and gives grace to sublimity; that shackles attention, and governs passion [emphasis is mine] (qtd. in Baker 221).

I suggest that rhymed quatrains of iambic tetrameter, with their shorter lines of even-numbered feet and frequently occurring rhymes are the form best suited for easing the brain's workload when interpreting poetry. They allow the mind to transcend incoming information more readily and reach realms of thought more difficult to attain through other forms. Furthermore, I would assert that the English-speaking human mind has an affinity for iambic tetrameter unmatched by other meters. That is why the most anthologized poems in the language are written in iambic tetrameter. That is why poets so often respond to one another in iambic tetrameter. That is why composers like to set poems written in iambic tetrameter to music. That is why novelists wax poetic over a particular meter...


Counter Arguments


Now, I know there will be those who disagree, especially those with a fondness for sonnets, heroic couplets, or even free verse. It is true, as Annie Finch points out, that "Each of the non-iambic meters, also, has its own character, music, and history, however subtle or intermittent. [And] trochaic poems, from Macbeth's witches to 'The Tyger' to 'The Raven' and even 'Hiawatha' have a history of supernatural and exotic subject matter" (in Baker 61). Which is why I disagree with Wallace when he claims there is no such thing as a trochaic meter. I would point out, however, that of these "The Tyger" is written in trochaic tetrameter, "The Raven" in trochaic octameter (trochaic tetrameter times two with a caesura in each line, most of them punctuated), and "The Song of Hiawatha," (With the rushing of great rivers, / With their frequent repetitions, / And their wild reverberations) is written primarily in trochaic tetrameter. I agree with John Frederick Nims when he says, "Most poetry in English is iambic, like our language itself and like the heartbeat which, months before we are born, first tells us we exist" (in Baker 171). My point is that iambic tetrameter lends itself most readily to greatness.


Conclusion


Iambic tetrameter, especially when housed in rhymed quatrains, sets up and satisfies mental expectancy patterns better than any other meter in the history of English poetry. By better satisfying mental expectancy patterns, long metered quatrains deliver greater information packets, allowing the reader to more easily perceive the integrated symbolic messages contained within them. This is confirmed by looking at the most anthologized poems of all time. It is confirmed by the frequency with which poets respond to one another in this form. It is confirmed by composers, novelists, and essayists. Search your own memory; I believe it will be confirmed there as well.



Works Cited




Appendix A


"The Passionate Shepherd to His Love"


Appendix B


"The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd"


Appendix C


"The Bait"


Appendix D


"Two Songs (Part II)"


Come, live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
Of peace and plenty, bed and board,
That chance employment may afford.

I'll handle dainties on the docks
And thou shalt read of summer frocks:
At evening by the sour canals
We'll hope to hear some madrigals.

Care on thy maiden brow shall put
A wreath of wrinkles, and thy foot
Be shod with pain: not silken dress
But toil shall tire thy loveliness.

Hunger shall make thy modest zone
And cheat fond death of all but bone —
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.

— C. Day Lewis, 1935



Appendix E


"Ubi Sunt...?"


Wednesday, July 15, 2009

The Metaphor Maker




People who hope to thrive in the Conceptual Age must understand the connections between diverse, and seemingly separate, disciplines. They must know how to link apparently unconnected elements to create something new. And they must become adept at analogy--at seeing one thing in terms of another. There are ample opportunities, in other words, for three types of people: the boundary crosser, the inventor, and the metaphor maker. (134)

-- Daniel H. Pink
A Whole New Mind

Pink has, here, hit upon the crux of metaphor as a wellspring of creativity -- the ability to "understand one thing in terms of something else" (139). Note the authors we admire in this blog:

  • "The Hero's Journey" of Joseph Campbell is a metaphor;
  • The Gutenberg Galaxy by Marshall McLuhan is a metaphor;
  • "The medium is the message" is obviously a metaphor;
  • as is I Am a Strange Loop by Douglas Hofstadter

It is always the metaphor maker who shows us a new reality -- an "imaginative rationality" (139) -- whether it's Pink Floyd "Learning to Fly" or a tone poem such as Brian Eno's "Stars."

Pink quotes Twyla Tharp, who "encourages people to boost their metaphor quotient, or MQ, because 'in the creative process, MQ is as valuable as IQ'" (139).

More importantly, metaphor is the basis of empathy, and, just as it allows us to understand others in terms of ourselves, it becomes the very foundation of consciousness, for "the more we understand metaphor, the more we understand ourselves" (140).

Q: What is I?
A: A metaphor. The question itself is metaphorical.

But the creative I is something more...


The creative I
is a metaphor maker.


Sunday, April 12, 2009

I Am a Myth


As I reviewed Hofstadter last week, I enjoyed rereading another of his Platonic dialogues, "A Courteous Crossing of Words," this one between SL #641--a believer in the ideas of I Am a Strange Loop--and SL #642--a doubter of the ideas of I Am a Strange Loop:

SL #641: Earlier, I described your "I" as a self-reinforcing structure and a self-reinforcing story, but now I'll risk annoying you by calling it a self-reinforcing myth [emphasis is Hofstadter's].
SL #642: A myth?! I'm certainly not a myth, and I'm here to tell you so. (291)

SL #641 then explains itself this way:

The "I" -- yours, mine, everyone's -- is a tremendously effective illusion, and falling for it has fantastic survival value. Our "I"'s are self-reinforcing illusions that are an inevitable by-product of strange loops, which are themselves an inevitable by-product of symbol-possessing brains that guide bodies through the dangerous straits and treacherous waters of life. (291)

Such dramatic language would seem to invite literary support, but first we find support from another take on the physics of thought -- Zen Physics:

We are the products of our life stories. [...] So, inevitably, a lot of what we remember is not what actually happened--whatever this may mean--but rather a kind of myth or confabulation that helps us sustain the impression that we know what is going on. [...] We maintain a sense of continuity and so provide a basis for our feeling of personal identity at the cost of never knowing what is true. We are as much a myth as the stories we tell ourselves. (Darling, 1996, 35-36)

Darling goes on to assert that "[t]he brain, in effect, appears to have a resident storyteller that works ceaselessly to link everything that comes to its attention into a single coherent narrative" (87).

A single coherent narrative. A myth. A monomyth. That's what Joyce called it in Finnegans Wake, and it would become the basis of Joseph Campbell's concept of the hero's journey:

The standard path of the mythological adventure of the hero is a magnification of the formula represented in the rites of passage: separation--initiation--return: which might be named the nuclear unit of the monomyth. (Campbell, 1949, 30)

Separation--initiation--return. We do it over and over; furthermore, we remember each iteration and use it to inform the next iteration of the set of strange loops we call life. And the lifestory that we construct becomes a myth with a single protagonist: I.

So what is myth?

For Marshall McLuhan, myth "is the mode of simultaneous awareness of a complex group of causes and effects" (McLuhan, 1962, 266). This "complex group of causes and effects" is simply another way to express strange loops of separation--initiation--return; therefore, McLuhan's definition of myth would certainly support both Darling and Hofstadter. But James P. Carse gives us, perhaps, the most concrete definition of myth:

Myths [...] are not stories that have meanings, but stories that give meanings" (Carse, 1986).

Without myth, life would have no meaning. That is why I am a myth.


Sunday, March 29, 2009

Learning to Fly


In preparing to write this piece, I checked several websites for the lyrics to Pink Floyd's "Learning to Fly" (see The Audio File, left). Disappointed with each of them, I decided that the problem lies not so much with the listeners' ability to transcribe Gilmour's words, but with the very attempt at transcription itself. After all, orality is the essence of rock, which Marshall McLuhan describes as "a kind of education based upon an oral tradition, an acoustic experience, which is quite strangely remote from literacy" (Understanding Me, 229). Therefore, my approach remains strictly oral, but in order to work in the typographic medium that is blogging, I must type the lyrics in some manner. Because I could find no agreement on punctuation--never mind the words themselves--I chose to completely eliminate all punctuation marks (which do not exist in the spoken word) as well as all capitalization with the exception of the word I.


I am doing so because one of the most interesting aspects of the lyric is Gilmour's emphasis of the word I. While the alphabet that we use in English typography is, in fact, entirely phonetic--i.e., the letters represent sounds (phonemes) not meaning (morphemes)--there is one exception, and the exception is the letter i. While inarguably phonetic, the letter I also represents the most central meaning known to conscious beings: selfhood. And, as we shall see, this I, this point of view, is central to the lyric.


So how does this I learn to fly? Through the hero's journey, naturally, and along the way, it shows us the struggle to return -- to return to the tribal orality that is rock.


into the distance a ribbon of black
stretched to the point of no turning back

Entering the scene in medias res, we are immediately thrust into a, supposedly, civilized hero's journey, standing, literally, at the point of departure, described by Joseph Campbell:


As apprehended by the mystic, it marks what has been termed "the awakening of the self." [...] But whether small or great, and no matter what the stage or grade of life, the call rings up the curtain, always, on a mystery of transfiguration--a rite, or moment, of spiritual passage, which, when complete, amounts to a dying and a birth. The familiar life horizon has been outgrown; the old concepts, ideals, and emotional patterns no longer fit; the time for the passing of a threshold is at hand. (The Hero With a Thousand Faces, 51)

In this case, that horizon is made visual through the use of verbal perspective--a ribbon of black stretched to the point of no return.


a flight of fancy on a windswept field
standing alone my senses reel

We move into the unreal world of imagination--a flight of fancy--but Gilmour has just a little fun with us on the way. Remember, this is orality, and though most listeners would transcribe the fourth line as "my senses reel" for the sake of cliche, the ear really cannot make that distinction, and just as readily picks up a Kantian pun: "my senses real." As McLuhan points out, "Joyce never tired of explaining how in Finnegans Wake the words the reader sees are not the words that he will hear'" (The Gutenberg Galaxy, 83).

a fatal attraction is holding me fast
how can I escape this irresistible grasp

Here we see a classic example of the hero's refusal of the call; however, it may be a rhetorical question. The hero is both drawn and repelled by the prospect of this journey.

cant keep my eyes from the circling sky
tongue tied and twisted just an earthbound misfit I

What is the crux of the hero's problem? As a rock hero, it can only be the tension between his visual education and his auditory nature, as McLuhan makes clear:


The hero has become a split man as he moves towards the possession of an individual ego. And the "split" is manifest as pictorialized models or "machinery" of complex situations such as tribal, auditory man had made no effort to visualize. That is to say, detribalization, individualization, and pictorialization are all one. The magical mode disappears in proportion as interior events are made visually manifest. (The Gutenberg Galaxy, 52).

As humans can learn to fly only in manmade machinery, and this lyric clearly indicates learning to fly in a propeller-driven aircraft, the hero finds himself crossing the first threshold in a solo journey of self-doubt, sitting alone in the belly of the whale:

ice is forming on the tips of my wings
unheeded warnings I thought I thought of everything
no navigator to find my way home
unladened empty and turned to stone

At this point, there is some disagreement as to the words in the lyric. Each of the sources I found transcribed the next line as


a soul in tension thats learning to fly;

however, I believe it is just as reasonable to hear the line as


sole intention its learning to fly

This was my initial hearing of the verse, and frankly I prefer it. Either way, it sets up the road of trials for our hero:


condition grounded but determined to try
cant keep my eyes from the circling skies
tongue tied and twisted just an earthbound misfit I

This is the essence of the human situation--the lifelong yearning to fly, the undeniable fact of gravity. Our hero, however, overcomes his humanity:


above the planet on a wing and a prayer
my grubby halo a vapour trail in the empty air
across the clouds I see my shadow fly
out of the corner of my watering eye
a dream unthreatened by the morning light
could blow this soul right through the roof of the night

In a clear example of apotheosis, the hero defies gravity and, in doing so, as he must, experiences deification.

theres no sensation to compare with this
suspended animation a state of bliss

The hero is now free to enjoy his magic flight, the mastery of himself. As Campbell puts it:


I don't know what being is. And I don't know what consciousness is. But I do know what bliss is: that deep sense of being present, of doing what you absolutely must do to be yourself. If you can hang on to that, you are on the edge of the transcendent already. (Pathways to Bliss, xxiii).

The hero is now master of the two worlds, which we see in a telling change in the refrain. Recall that in each of the previous instances of the refrain, the hero can't keep his eyes from the circling sky; now, however, he has slipped into the acoustic, non-viewpoint reality of the auditory man, and he's gone:


cant keep my mind from the circling sky
tongue tied and twisted just an earthbound misfit I

Sunday, March 22, 2009

The Music of Interrelation


In Understanding Media, Marshall McLuhan defines a "sacred" universe as one dominated by auditory media, including the spoken word. "A 'profane' universe, on the other hand, is one dominated by the visual sense. The clock and the alphabet, by hacking the universe into visual segments, ended the music of interrelation" [italics added] (210). So, how can McLuhan's concept of "sacred" vs. "profane" be applied to music, itself?

With the electronic music instrument, any tone can be made available in any intensity and for any length of time. Note that the older symphony orchestra was, by comparison, a machine of separate instruments that gave the effect of organic unity. With the electronic instrument, one starts with organic unity as an immediate fact of perfect synchronization. This makes the attempt to create the effect of organic unity quite pointless. Electronic music must seek other goals. (471)

For Brian Eno, those goals are nothing less than heightened awareness and consciousness itself. As case in point, consider "And Then So Clear". The use of vocoder immediately makes any attempt at organic unity pointless, as McLuhan, notes, but it does speak well of "the music of interrelation." And what we gain through Eno's impressionistic vocal is a mythic understanding of consciousness--clarity--itself, the very substance of sacred music. Check it out.


Sunday, March 15, 2009

Stars: the Consciousness of Cool


"Stars" -- eight minutes of expanded consciousness, made aural by Brian Eno (see The Audio File, left).

This piece from the Apollo: Spheres & Soundtracks album composed with Daniel Lanois and Roger Eno exemplifies the points Tamm makes about Eno's notion of ambient in Brian Eno: His Music and the Vertical Color of Sound: 1) the atmosphere is "colored" by a drone-like background layer; 2) the sonic density is fairly low, giving the impression of significant space between aural events; 3) there's a ton of signal processing, most notably echo and reverb in spite of the well-known vacuum of space that might be indicated by the title; 4) many events occur at levels barely above the threshold of conscious hearing; and 5) it's completely alive between your ears (147-148). And, though Tamm cites Eno's references to Marshall McLuhan's "gobal village" on several occasions, "Stars" is a perfect example of McLuhan's concept of cool.

For McLuhan, a hot medium is "one that extends one single sense in 'high definition.' High definition is the state of being well filled with data. A photograph is, visually, 'high definition.' A cartoon is 'low definition,' simply because very little visual information is provided. [...] Hot media are, therefore, low in participation, and cool media are high in participation or completion by the audience" (Understanding Media 39).

Eno's "Stars" certainly extends a single sense, but it does so in such low definition that it compels the listener to fill in the space, to travel the lightyears between stars, to become a voidsucker--one with the universe--to experience the consciousness of a god--that is, to be more fully human.