i am a bad hypothesis
used & rejected
full of faulty suppositions
& forgotten in a folder
on some shelf for forever
you'll probably quote me wrong
it probably won't matter

reading kobo abe, april 15-17

on friday evening after work i drank three craft beers (rye IPA, red ale, brown ale) on an outdoor bench while reading kobo abe. i posted about this to my personal facebook account.

on saturday in the day part after walking ~1.7mi i drank one craft beer (american IPA) at an outdoor picnic table while reading kobo abe. i posted about this to my personal facebook account but deleted it ~3h later. i then walked ~0.7mi to an indoor stool and drank one craft beer (belgian blonde ale) while reading kobo abe. i did not post about this; however, directly afterward, while walking ~2.8mi, i posted that "i want to read kobo abe from very far away (15-20 ft)" to my personal facebook account.

on sunday i did not read kobo abe, but not because i had finished the book. i will read kobo abe, i suspect, on monday.

poem i wrote late at night

everybody has a sky inside
maybe they do
you never know
sometimes it's dark & it's bleak & it's all hollowed out
sometimes it's grey
but if you go far enough down
if you cut through the clouds
it's always deep blue & beautiful,
no two skies made the same
   except for ours

kobo abe

kobo abe (1924-1993) was a japanese writer and photographer whose modernist style and tendency toward representations of entrapment is both reminiscent of that of franz kafka (1883-1924) and distinctly japanese in character. after spending his childhood in manchuria, abe returned to his native japan, where he studied but never practiced medicine, and instead used his time in academic circles to expose himself to the writing of edgar allen poe (1809-1849), fydor dostoevsky (1821-1881), friedrich nietzsche (1844-1900), and edmund husserl (1859-1938). the new york times has referred to abe's writing as "disquieting and original", and vice.com describes the mood of his work as disorienting and yet familiar, like the writer is "squeezing humanity from a bear trap".

marx art: bertolt brecht, epic theater

in ,

bertolt brecht was a revolutionary theater practitioner and the father of the “epic theater”. deeply political and grounded in brecht’s early involvement with marxism, the premise of epic was that an audience shouldn’t “hang up their brains with their hats in the cloakroom”, and should instead ask questions about how the characters ought to have acted. 

brecht sometimes referred to his theater as “non-aristotelian”, but nonetheless agreed with aristotle that pleasure is “the noblest function we have found for the theater”; this simple appreciation of beauty is how we enjoy aristophanes or shakespeare. but he also felt that, in a world characterized by industry’s assertion of man over nature, “our whole way of appreciation” was out of date. our relationship with the world was different now, and this shift in power was reflected in politics, society, and economics, the realms in which decisions about industry are ultimately made. 

to serve his political purpose, brecht constructed narratives that were so digestible that they seemed absurd, staged plays in distracting settings, and built direct references to pieces into their scripts by mentioning musical numbers and creating plays within plays. 

all of this contributed to the verfremdungseffekt, a word brecht invented that is often referred to as the “distancing” effect. brecht implemented the effect to prompt the audience to look at the play like they might look at a watch for the first time: rather than simply seeing the hour, they should see the metal gears, the leather strap, the marble of the face, and how each of these pieces contributes to the ability of the wearer to read the time. this is what brecht meant when he said that the epic could “practically be cut up with a scissors”. 

because he was a radical, in 1933 brecht fled germany. he eventually set up shop in the united states, where he later began to refer to his style as the “dialectical theater”. over time, epic has contributed to many movements in the theater, served as inspiration to bob dylan, and foreshadowed the rise of postmodern art. 

see: 
“a short organum for the theater” (1948)
“theater for learning” (1929)

schopenhauer: "on the aesthetics of architecture" (from "the world as will and representation, vol. II")

in

for arthur schopenhauer, the fundamental law of architecture is that "no load may be without sufficient support, and no support without a suitable load". the Ideas expressed through architecture are then "gravity, rigidity, and cohesion", and not "merely regular form, proportion, and symmetry", as the second class, where it's present in architecture, is only found there as a reflection of the first. architecture, like the other forms of art, expresses the essence of existenceitself, one's experience of which is grounded in certain conditions (e.g. gravity), which are consequently the means through which one comes to identify phenomena (e.g. form). a prime example of this is when one looks at a support column, when, through one's experience of having a body acted upon by natural physics, one can recognize or "feel" how the load of a weight is distributed onto a column, and will naturally appreciate a column that is bowed out and tapered in appropriate points as required by physical laws. conversely, straight columns feel off-putting, because they are uncannily similar to one's bodily experience, and yet differ infinitely. similarly, schopenhauer says that "a glaring example of load without support is presented to the eye by the balconies that stick out," because "we do not see what carries them; they appear suspended, and disturb the mind." architecture for schopenhauer is the lowest form of the arts, but also the one most similar to music, the highest form. but whereas music occurs in time alone, architecture is absolutely confined to space, into infinity, never to move, only to 'be'.

Brian Eno

in

A woman in a navy hat and a grey overcoat sat down next to Brian Eno on a bench in the park.

“Hi, I’m Brian Eno,” said Brian Eno. “I coined the term ‘ambient music’ after collaborating extensively with krautrock musicians in the 70s, and also composed the album ‘Apollo’, songs from which have appeared in over three major motion pictures.”

“Hello,” said the woman, “My name is Dorothy.”

Brian Eno beamed. Brian Eno couldn’t say what this meant to him—couldn’t verbalize the depth of emotion he was experiencing in that moment—and so abandoned any attempt. Instead, Brian Eno continued to sit there, on the park bench, looking straight into the verdant space before him, his smile draped from both ears.

“Grandma,” said a small boy—probably around 7 or 8, Brian Eno thought—who approached Dorothy. “I just swinged on the swings…and it was really awesome!”

“Hi,” said Brian Eno to the boy. “I’m Brian Eno. I innovated music with my 1978 album ‘Music for Airports’, which was an acclaimed artistic success.” The boy looked down at his feet.

“This is Dalton,” said Dorothy. “Dalton’s a little bit shy, aren’t you Dalton?” Dalton buried his head into Dorothy’s grey overcoat. “Can you show me what you did on the swing?” Dorothy asked Dalton, who shook his head. “What if I go over to the swings with you?” Dorothy asked again. Slowly, Dalton backed out of Dorothy’s breast and pulled her by the arm to the swing set, where he sat in the swing and began to move back and forth.

Brian Eno, watching the scene play out in front of him, felt a sense of pride. No, that wasn’t it; Brian Eno felt a sense of accomplishment—he had been here to experience this moment from its genesis. He was forever changed.

A jogger passed Brian Eno, who thought it may be a good idea to follow him. Brian Eno arose from the bench and proceeded to walk in the same direction that the jogger was going, but he quickly fell behind and became distracted by some ducks near a pond. They were walking around a structure that Brian Eno also saw there. When Brian Eno approached them, they began to quack.

“Hi, I’m Brian Eno,” said Brian Eno to the ducks. Brian Eno bent down to look at them. “I worked together with Phil Collins, John Cale, and Robert Fripp on my third studio album ‘Another Green World’, which marked a substantial departure from my previous music, and which would prove to be a crucial step in the development of ‘ambient music’ as a larger genre.”

The ducks quacked with the force of sheer indifference. Some quacked at Brian Eno, some quacked at one another, and still others simply quacked around or near Brian Eno. Brian Eno suddenly straightened his back with a jerk and looked at the ducks, in awe at what he had just experienced.

“This is phenomenal—unbelievable,” Brian Eno gasped. Brian Eno reached for a small digital recording device that he kept in his left pocket with his keys and brought it out into the non-pocket world, the world of objects, at the ready. Brian Eno began to record the ducks quacking. As Brian Eno did this, the ducks began to grow louder in volume; the sound felt more like screaming, really, like howling. Passersby peered out off of the asphalt trail into the pond area, alarmed, worried that something was happening to the ducks, that something unintended for perception by human consciousness had occurred. Brian Eno felt an uncontrollable sense of power rise up within himself.

“Hi, I’m Brian Eno,” Brian Eno called over the horrible sound to the passersby who had stopped to stare. “I created the album ‘Music for Films’ as a selection of songs I wrote to be the soundtracks to imaginary films! However, six of them did eventually appear in very real film productions throughout the late 70s and early 80s!” Brian Eno began to tremble violently as he felt the surges of raw and unadulterated sound energy flow through his body. “Now I am recording these ducks for my next album, ‘Brian Eno’! I hope you will not be alarmed—this is something I do quite often, and I can assure you that ‘Brian Eno’ will be my best work to date!”’

Brian Eno dropped the two sheets of paper in his hands onto the conference room desk. Brian Eno stood up and turned around to look out the window of the room that he and 12 others, all members of the Brian Eno Marketing Team, were sitting in. Brian Eno leaned on the windowsill with both hands, gazed into the gentle grey hue of the overcast London sky.

“Really?” Brian Eno finally said after some moments. Brian Eno let his gaze fall to his feet. Years of being a leader in innovation—years of cultivating his craft as the master of ‘ambient music’—and yet, somehow, this is where it had all culminated. It had really come to this.

“How confident do we feel about this approach?” Brian Eno asked slowly, eyes closed, face tilted downward.

“With all due respect, Brian Eno,” started a young man—Davy, 25, marketing (BBA)—at the far end of the table. But someone else—Kris, 34, management (MBA)—at the head of the table, nearest Brian Eno, immediately looked at him sternly.

“This is how we want to tell them?” Brian Eno spoke up again. Brian Eno turned around violently and pointed to the two sheets of paper now lying scattered across the tabletop. “This is how we want to tell them about ‘Brian Eno’, the final installment in the grand march toward the realization of ‘ambient music’?” Brian Eno glared directly into the table of marketers. A vein throbbed in Brian Eno’s head.

“We thought it might make some good memes,” said Kris, 34, management (MBA) before clearing her throat. “The best way to get accepted by The Millennnials is to make fun of yourself.”

Brian Eno slowly sat down in his chair to face the Brian Eno Marketing Team—calmly, politically. Brian Eno picked up an apple from before—approx. 1/5 consumed—and bit into it. Brian Eno chewed the bite of apple that he had just taken.

Brian Eno was wearing a black turtleneck, Davy, 25, marketing (BBA) noticed.

“Right,” said Brian Eno. “I understand that these are the games that we must play. I am aware of this. I trust you, the Brian Eno Marketing Team—after all, I pay hundreds of thousands of dollars for your judgment.” Brian Eno took another bite of his apple. “But I want to be certain—absolutely certain—that you are confident in this approach.”

The room was silent, mostly, except for the sound of a pencil scribbling on a notepad. Davy, 25, marketing (BBA), was making cursory plans for a tentative Brian Eno Marketing Team project, a marketing strategy for Brian Eno.

“Brian Eno—and Kris, if I may—I have an idea,” Davy, 25, marketing (BBA), finally said. The entire Brian Eno Marketing Team turned to look at Davy, 25, marketing (BBA), and so did Brian Eno. A few of them breathed heavily while doing it.

“Please,” whispered Brian Eno. “Share.” Brian Eno affected nonchalance as he bit into his apple and chewed it like before, and the Brian Eno Marketing Team, including Kris, 34, management (MBA), suffered a great deal of suspense in this moment. The silence was a thick silence, a silence of sheer indifference. The silence simply did not care whether one acknowledged it or just wished to leave the room to avoid it; the silence was like steel wool, unable to be broken, more than prepared to ruin everything, and really ugly. Davy, 25, marketing (BBA), finished jotting down a few last notes.

“I think we should take more of a mainstream approach, utilizing pastel colors and papier-mâché, as well as pushing content through all the traditional television and video channels,” Davy, 25, marketing (BBA) finally said.

“What in the fuck?” Brian Eno shouted. Brian Eno threw down the three sheets of paper in his hands. Surrounding Brian Eno were a couple of ceramic animals and various other pieces of lawn décor, each selected and arranged by Sebastian, his housekeeper. Brian Eno was lying on a lawn chair, mostly undressed, beneath the Ibiza sun on a hot July afternoon.

“Where did you find this rubbish?” Brian Eno shouted at Sebastian, his housekeeper.

Sebastian, his housekeeper, handed Brian Eno a Sidecar, a cocktail traditionally made with cognac, orange liqueur, and lemon juice, and said, “It was on the internet, Brian Eno, on one of those web logs. Do you know how I mean?”

Brian Eno scoffed. Brian Eno knew what a “web log” was; “Brian Eno” had been mentioned in over one hundred thousand of them. Brian Eno glared at Sebastian, his housekeeper, and felt an uncontrollable sense of power rise up within himself.

Brian Eno took a sip of his Sidecar, a cocktail traditionally made with cognac, orange liqueur, and lemon juice, and lay back down in his lawn chair. Then Brian Eno said, “Christ.”

Cliff Ross Buys a Pound of Folger's

in

Cliff Ross went to Walmart to buy a can of Folger’s. He approached the sliding doors that said Exit, but they opened anyway. 

“Well hey there,” smiled the greeter, who was pushing carts into three crooked lines when Cliff Ross walked into the front room. The greeter was about Cliff Ross’s father’s age, but was a woman. “How are you this afternoon?”

Cliff Ross smiled a little bit with the corners of his mouth at the greeter, but he didn’t say anything to her. He knew it wasn’t her fault, but he wished that he could go into public without having his privacy invaded. It seemed indecent. He walked through the front room into the more Walmart part of the Walmart, which was just another big room, and passed an advertising display of Pop Tarts being offered in a new holiday flavor. He thought he might buy some for his son, Ronnie Ross, who had just recently turned 13, and was now permitted by state law to ride the bus home alone in the afternoons. On a couple of occasions over the past week, Cliff Ross’s wife had mentioned buying Ronnie Ross some easy to prepare snacks for after school in case he got hungry while she and Cliff Ross weren’t around. Cliff Ross decided to let her buy them instead. 

“I’m going to buy Folger’s,” Cliff Ross thought. 

Cliff Ross looked at the descending, numbered plastic signs that overhung the row of aisles stretching out in front of him. The first sign was emblazoned with the number 14. “That’s stupid,” Cliff Ross said aloud. “They should start at 1.” Underneath the numbers on each sign, there had been printed a list of things that could be found in that aisle. In aisle 14, for example, Cliff Ross saw that he could find Frozen Vegetables, Frozen Pizzas, Frozen Dinners. “No,” Cliff Ross said. He read the sign that said 13. He didn’t know it before he read the sign, but he quickly realized that he didn’t want Canned Beans, Canned Vegetables, Canned Soup, Canned Meat either.

A black man in a blue vest and khakis passed Cliff Ross going the other direction.

“Hey,” Cliff Ross shouted. The man stopped and smiled at Cliff Ross sincerely before crossing the large pathway to approach him. “I’m looking for Folger’s.” 

“Our coffees are in aisle 7, sir,” the man smiled. He pointed down the way in the direction of aisle 7.

Cliff Ross smirked at the man and descended further down the row of aisles. “That’s more like it,” Cliff thought. “Didn’t ask my name or nothing. Didn’t ask how I’m doing. Didn’t ask me nothing. Just gave me what I want.” 

When he got to aisle 7, Cliff Ross read the list on the sign hanging over his head and saw Coffee, Tea, Dried Beans, Spices. Without entering, he peered down the lane and saw two women with shopping carts looking at beans and spices, and a man about his age wearing a faded denim work jacket looking at coffee. Cliff scanned the items on the shelves and saw six or seven different styles of packaging that each contained coffee.

Cliff Ross laughed. “There can’t be that many kinds of coffee,” he said to whomever was listening. The man in the denim jacket looked at him without saying anything. Cliff Ross walked down the aisle and gazed at the different containers of coffee, immediately disregarding the ones in bags. He saw coffee by Walmart’s “Great Value” brand and cringed, entirely unintentionally, and right afterward decided that he didn’t want Maxwell House, either. After about thirty seconds or so, when he saw the red tub of Folger’s, he became unsure whether he wanted the smaller pack or the “Value Pack”.

“They’ll get you with the sizes,” Cliff Ross said to the man in the denim jacket, who had looked at him earlier when he’d addressed the overwhelmingly vast selection of coffee in the aisle. The man looked at him again.

“Yeah,” the man said with a genuine tone of voice. “I always go for the big pack. Gonna drink it all anyway.”

“You ain’t wrong,” Cliff Ross said pensively after he thought about it. “I usually just think about how long it’ll be till the next time I’m aiming to go to town.”

The man looked at Cliff Ross again and stuck out his hand. “Andy Wolz.” Cliff Ross looked over at the hand, looked up at Andy Wolz’s face, and looked back at Andy Wolz’s hand. He shook it.

“Cliff Ross,” Cliff Ross said. “Whereabouts you from?”

“Born and raised right here in Casey,” Andy Wolz said, and he tucked his hands into his pockets. “I’m an old-timer. Went to Christ Hill elementary till they closed it down in ‘61.”

“I’ll be. You got any kinfolk here?” Cliff Ross asked.

“The Douglases and the Moberlys, directly,” Andy said. 

The two sat in a profound silence for a little while until Cliff Ross finally, decisively, picked up the “Value Pack” of Folger’s. He looked at Andy Wolz and said, “Nice knowing you, Andy Wolz. Have a good one.” Andy Wolz nodded obligingly, and Cliff Ross walked toward the checkout counters. There were eleven of them, but only one was open. Cliff Ross went to that one and put the “Value Pack” of Folger’s on the conveyor belt.

A woman about five years younger than Cliff Ross was working the aisle. “I’m more of a Dunkin Donuts girl,” she laughed as she picked up the tub and moved it over the scanner. The scanner beeped.

"Well we can't all be rich and famous,” Cliff Ross said while handing over a five dollar bill. The woman behind the conveyor belt laughed sincerely and returned his change. When Cliff Ross closed his hand around the two quarters, dime, and three pennies, he glanced at the blue plastic “Give a Penny” bowl on the counter. He put the change in his pocket and took his Folger’s.

“Have a good one,” the woman at the counter said to Cliff Ross as he walked away. Cliff Ross threw up his without looking back, his tub of Folger’s tucked under the other arm.  

“Get everything you wanted?” the greeter asked Cliff Ross as he walked back out of the Walmart through the front room. There was still the same amount of carts in the room, each in a line that was just as crooked as before.

“Yeah I did,” Cliff Ross said.

“Have a good one,” she said earnestly, but Cliff Ross had already passed through the sliding Exit doors and could no longer hear her. Cliff Ross walked into the parking lot, pressed the lock button on his keychain remote, and followed the sound of the car horn.