07 November 2011

Blackjack

The cracked polyester of the stool. The creak, so slight, so defeated. The broken dreams of former occupants, soaked into the fabric, or the stool itself objecting to bearing witness again. The pushpin leather. The concentric circles, distinguished by their width, rings in a tree that grew with the hot streaks. The clink of three ice cubes – three, three, only lucky numbers for lucky drinks – against the brittle glass. The unsteady hand. The drop, a single drop of golden liquor, now an unfinished varnish on that over-stuffed leather. The beading sweat, slick against the glass. The failing A/C to blame.

The unsteady hands. The signal to the dealer. The crisp note, the note, unseen in the light for who knows how long, the gift of some faceless ATM. The last note; the last chance. The crinkle as it changes hands, reluctance nearly tightens the grip. The bill floats for a second, risks becoming last chance to none. The deposit. The exchange, one small stack, one fortune, one famine. The static attraction of felt to chip. The greedy desire to each face to rest on the green, all painted with precociousness. The riffle, proclaiming with a faint zip the meager amount. The ceramic cling, or was it common sense? The stronger pull to return to the center of the Universe. The thrill.

The beading sweat, the forehead now, no amount of A/C could abate. The push. The little town, untidy, stacked up and corralled. The last call. The little voice. The urge to sweep away the last tokens of a life lived and head towards the light. The thrill. The other little voice. The thought of doubling what little there is.

The first round. The sweep of the ark draws near. The unsteady hands. The look. The strike of the clock. The swoop. The landing. The nervous glance. The spade. The royalty. The scepter, not the sword. The smallest of sighs. The chest draws tighter. The ark continues. The clock strikes twelve. The twin staring back. The one eyed bandit. The doubt. The last leg. The fading hope. The ark begins again. The second round. The chest draws tighter. The unsteady hands. The creak of the chair, the lean forward, the can’t bear to look. The ark sweeps nearer. The chest draws tighter still. The silent pleas. The furrowed brow. The promise that this will be the last time.

The card falls.

06 November 2011

Spectre

There is a well-worn cobblestone road near the center of town, buffed and shined with millenia of use. It’s hard to tell these days where the seam is, where one stone stops and another starts. Even the gutters have faded without the effluent abuse; it’s as if they too aren’t sure if where the edge of the road is, if they should even both to proudly define it. The sidewalk flank that cobblestone path as if the street would wash away with out the embrace, is similarly unremarkable. In fact, where it not for the hewn texture, no one would notice ther even was a sidewalk. The demarcation, after all, had become entirely meaningless. Further out still from the strips of sandstone hue ascend two skyward slabs of granite, obstinate, orthogonal, if only to shout, “This is not my fate!” This is its fate. Layer, by layer slowly peeled backed, polished, pristine with the decades of neglect. No trace of dust, nor litter; no neon script, nor soot, nor errant chalk. No sign of creation, nor destruction, nor being.

Footsteps now; the shrill rat-tat-tat. The gossip runs down the length of the road, a telephone game with the handset unplugged, announcing to all an arrival. The rhythm draws nearer, and the road seems to as well, to restore order, put on the Sunday best. The walls stand erect with claustrophobic closeness, if only to appear for the shortest of moments to be a foundation.


The young man notices none of this. Awash in technicolor, engulfed in sickly sweet patterns and design craving hig every glance. His eyes twist themselves into complex knots – tight, tighter, and tighter still – as they struggle to grant each fantastic perversion a moment’s notice. They beg for his attention, these ghosts in the machine, howling slogans, pushing panaceas,indulgig every whim. The brain struggles to keep up, the body slavishly in tow, being conducted off-tempo and out of key. No tonic too tasteless, no ritual too rigorous. The young man is gone, given in to a world of spectres.

But for a second, the illusion fades. The young man stops. No pixy-dust pallete, just an all-encompassing grey, the man reaches out to feel these supposed virtual textures, only to feel rough-hewn reality. As quick as it vanished, reality returns, uninterrupted, chasing all thought away. Absorbed again, he continues, the scuffed sound of trumpets announcing his passage.

The young man turns the corner, never to return. The street sinks back into melancholia, never to forget.

05 November 2011

Tactics, Strategy, Vision

“Don’t tell people how to do things, tell them what to do and let them surprise you with their results” - General George S. Patton


It’s one thing to realize one day that you have no idea where you’re headed. Quarter life crisis, college stress, too many tests, whatever. It’s scary becoming an adult; it’s scarier making decisions that will affect all aspects of your future life.

But it’s a entirely different matter to realize that you have no idea where you’ve been traveling with no heading for the past two years. You’re lost in the forest halfway between the homestead and your grandmother’s house with no fucking clue how to bring your sweet little nanny her picnic basket, and no idea how to make your way back home.

It’s a failure of tactics – of knowing where the heck your going. You’ve got to college, put your head into your books, and woken up two years later with a bit of drool, suddenly realizing you have no idea what how these courses on philosophy and astronomy are going to do a goddamn thing for you in your future life.

Turn on. Tune in. Drop out.

There’s nothing wrong with being embroiled in the day to day stuf, you know, day to day; being strategic with your life is essential in order to get things done. But there comes a point in time where you need to stop, stand back and ask yourself, “Is what I’m doing getting me to where I want to be?” It’s about being tactical, at least occasionally; like Patton, it’s essential that you tell yourself about the “what”, and worry about the “how” sometime later.

But it’s more than that. It takes vision – not the cruddy, pontificating type – to unite what you’re accomplishing in your god awful psychology class with your maniacal goal to make millions of dollars during your late twenties. It’s about being able to understand how the squad charging on that hill will capture the airfield to establish a beachhead to sweep through Brittany to move past the Sigfried Line on the way to the Reichstag in Berlin. And then continue onto Moscow, if you’re so inclined, like Patton.

Vision is what’s essential. You don’t have to be the best calculator puncher. You don’t have to be the best multi-phase proposal writer.

Success is driven by understanding how you can use one to get to the other.

04 November 2011

Artist, Musician

“Musicians come and go and they’re stewards of the music for a brief period of time … The musicians are there to get their goddamn hands off of it.” - Trey Anastasio, of Phish, on musicians as stewards.


What an incredibly insane idea. Thousands of hours of effort. Countless years of training. Auditions, tux fitting, spending a fortune on the perfect instrument.

To just get out of the way, for a brief moment, and let the audience experience the hallowed work you happening to be performing.

It’s such a strange idea, this concept of stwerdship, and yet it feels so right. What’s amazing is that you’ve done your best when the audience, with that last note still hanging in their air, leap to their feet with thunderous applause – not for you, nor for anyone around you, nor even, despite his ego, the conductor with his gracious bows. They applaud for the music.

Perfection is hitting all the right notes.

Perfection is being unnoticed.

What a strange and wonderful thing, to be a steward. And what a great thing to strive for, to make something worth looking after.

03 November 2011

Reimagining the File System

Yeah. This is going to be nerdy.


The Metaphor

It started with the Mac in 1984. In making the jump from the green-on-black blinking cursor to the graphical interface and the mouse, there was a disconnect that needed to be solved: how can abstract collections of bits by presented visualy? How can they be organized? Ultimately three basic paradigms evolved:

  1. The File: The human accessible “bit”; the container that data, whether a text document, an image, a song, etc., it’s a standard “currency” ofr digital stuff.
  2. The Folder: The central hub of organization was, more or less, the manila folder - iconic, infinitely hierarchical, and uniquely representative of a holder of “files”, especially in the early years when those files tended to be text or images only.
  3. The Application: The fundamental “doer” within the OS, which could operate on files, run standalone processes (like a calculator, or, later, an internet browser), it was representative of the things we have available at our disposal on our desk.

Now of course the metaphor didn’t correlate one-to-one with physicality; after all, no one in their right mind would keep something like a calculator, let alone a typewriter, in a manila folder. Likewise, folder hierarchies in the real-world were more likely to be found in containers, drawers, file cabinets, and the like, rather than a never-ending cascade of folders. And yet the concept more or less adequately suited the needs of the Mac user at the time.

Search Found

Of course the underlying impetus for this representational view of the interface, especially in the organizational paradigms, was that organization was essential for the efficient look-up, retrieval and use of files and applications. “search”, more often than not, was a much more literal term; if a program or file was misplaced, the only recourse was to visually search every dark causeway of the file system. The file system itself was also quite small - data was contained on floppy disks, a relic of an era remembered now only iconically, and perhaps ironically, in program “save” buttons.

Broken

And so this paradigm held for an extremely long time in the Mac OS interface; and, since Windows shamelessly copied everything about their system from one place or another, the metaphor lived on as well. Systems became more robust, programs became more rich and interactive, file types became more diversified and larger, and storage became extremely affordable; and yet this organizational ideology remained nearly entirely unchanged: scraps of accessible data, held in folders (or spewn across the desktop), with applications available to interface with them.

But as internet use becomes more and more ubiquitous, this paradigm becomes more or more convoluted, to the point of becoming a distraction, or even a disruption for the end-user. Files are redownloaded several, or even dozens, of times, because the first version can never be found. Important data is deleted, because it’s believed to be one of many multiples of a copy that in fact has, through attrition or forgetfulness, become the only remaining master. And while search has caught up with our strenuous data demands, organization remains frustrating and nearly impossible.

Association vs. Location

Fundamentally, the current analogy of the computer is location-based: my “stuff” is either in this folder or that one; and yet that distinction is entirely semantical, because those bits are still exactly the same whether they’re filed under “Documents” or “My Terrible Weblog Posts” - the hard drive does not care what naming convention you decide to hold to when organizing. And yet, if you want your data to reside in multiple places, say, in your Work Projects folder as well as in your Pictures it must be duplicated; there’s little way around it. And what’s worse, altering one has no effect on the other; they’re now in all sense of the words seperate entities that happen to display the same output. It makes no fundamental sense - if I want the same bits, why can’t I just group them in multiple places?

The solution is an easy one, I think – keep track of associations, not location. All applications are held centrally 1, so there is no question as to where I need to go to work on something. Files are just in a “soup”, where everything is organizable and viewable at a glance - though it would be an unpleasant experience to dive directly into this sea of data. Instead, the new “folder” becomes an ad-hoc grouping of files based on user-selected similarities – things like origin website, project data, lewd pictures of the queen, etc. – or system similarities like date added, type, author. The system would keep track of these associations to groups, determining how many times they are referenced, and where, withot the need to duplicate any data. If the user wants a duplicate, it would be simple to do; but there is no need to do so in order to group the same thing in multiple places. Associations could have their own hierarchical associations as well, just like folders.

Data would primarily be accessed by applications though, given the decreased reliance on the file system. And instead of hunting for data in the backwaters of umpteen different nested folders, applications would set subscriptions for the type of material they would be able to access, and display these files, arranged in the same ad-hoc maner, without the need to hunt and peck.

Data meant for the trash would likewise be incredibly easy to produce. Remove a file from a group, and the system would dereference the underlying data by one; drop to zero, and it would automatically make it’s way to the trash. Want to immediately delete the data itself? Not a problem – and more importantly, there would be no need to look for any possible extraneous copies because there just wouldn’t be any. Newly acquireddata would have it’s own inbox, waiting for some initial assignment, while the trash would just be a corral to glance through before sending unwanted files out to pasture.

The differences are slight, and subtle, and probably not worth really worrying over. And yet there is something broken with the current implementation; and these slight changes would go along way to vastly improving accessibility for a wide variety of users.


  1. Yes, I am aware that Windows does this by default and it’s one of the few things I like about the system; however, the subsequent hierarchy is all but impossible to fathom. ↩

02 November 2011

Resolve

“Many know the path. Few walk it.” – Dharma


plink!

A cringe, a shudder. Willing the eyes to hone ever so tightly on the white square of a monotone PowerPoint, the ears to completely fill with the drone of some lecture. focus, he thinks. just focus.

plink!

The back of the mind is infinitessimally inconquerable; it knows, knows, that the silence only exists so that the next thundering, intolerable tear into his concentration can occur. It waits, inevitability on its side, knowing that every cymbal crash only further demonstrates the obvious, the willful destruction of its sanity; it waits for the rub-ins, the I-told-you-so.

plink!

Would that he could punture his ear drums to blissfully slip away from the steady drum of agony. Would that he could indulge in the fantasy of returning, nay gleefully shoving, the effluent scum down the hole from whence it came. Would that he could do something, anything, to escape the impetuous dribble.

plink!

Would that he could live in anguish.

plink. plink. plink.


“Many know the path. Few walk it.”

It’s always “Why Me?” It’s so, so easy to find yourself the victim of some inscrutable punishment, from some heinous ill-willed spirit who clearly only exists to spite you. We all know them: the chews-in-class guy, the gal who sips her coffee way to fucking loud, the neighbor that hones his terrible guitar skills for hours on end, that that lacks social skills in any regard.

They will always be there, always, forever, without a shadow of a doubt. But what need not be is the predictability of our response. We have a set of options, we have a choice, and ultimately, there is a path that we may or may not choose to follow.

“Many know the path. Few walk it.”

It’s easy to be the victim. It’s easy to whine and complain and constantly pit as the protagonist against some malevolent force. But these grievances don’t decrease in frequency because we’ve told the world how horrible a situation we’re in. We don’t recieve a respite from every annoyance, every occurence, just because we’ve acknowledged that yes, you there, in the blue, every time you get that smug look on your face after slurping from your mug I want to slap you so hard your head spins off it’s axis. The universe just doesn’t fucking care. And so instead, we drift from crime scene to crime scene, somehow always the victim but clearly never the villian.

“Many know the path. Few walk it.”

It’s easy, too, to be that bitch that everyone tip-toes around and speaks about in a hushed tone for fear of upsetting the beast. It’s easy to be the laser-guided bomb headed toward every distraction, every both, and obliterate it with a fresh heaping of scortched earth and burnt bridges. After all that asshole sitting next to you is clearly only sniffling every five seconds to spite you and seriously I’m going to shove a goddamn kleenex up your nose if I hear one more peep from your honker. The problem is, of course, is that not only are you never going to run out of targets for your pent-up munitions, you’re also going to very rapidly become that person. And yes, we all know exactly which one I’m referring to.

“Many know the path. Few walk it.”

What is so difficult, so hard to fathom, yet alone actually follow through on, is finding the resolve to not let horribly excruciating, yet ultimately meaningless shit bother you. Finding the stomach, or the meddle, or the serenity, or the mindfulness, or whatever you want to call it, to just let things go is so, so tough. And that’s exactly why it’s so damn important.

The world around you isn’t going to change much; sips-too-loud guy, spits-in-a-cup douche and the rest of them will always be there, and they’ll probably never understand that their actions could even possibly be a problem to anybody. But what can change, what you can do, is just let the small shit go. It’s goddamn tough, and it seem so unfair. But master that, and you’ll master the world’s effects on you.

“Many know the path. Few walk it.”

November

A fantastic month for so many reasons. One of the more interesting reasons though, is the now-twelfth year of NaNoWriMo, an annual event sponsored by the Office of Letters and Light. The challenge is to complete a literary marathon - write a 50,000 word novel in the span of a month. A tall order indeed.

Writing a novel would be interesting and great, and writing it here, serially would be even more interesting; unfortunately, the practical challenges of getting a short-lived attention span to stay laser-focused on one story for a handful of days would be nigh insurmountable, let alone a month 1.

But the spirit of the challenge is incredibly interesting. And for the next thirty days I will be writing some sort of piece and posting it. Thoughts, short stories, technical papers, you name it. It will be a November thick with ink.

Feel free to stop by.


  1. I realize that this may very well be the exact reason why this challenge exists; to overcome this particular boundary. Nevertheless, I’m not particularly interested in subjecting myself, or anyone else for that matter, to the melodramatic, Spanish soap opera horseshit that I would inevitably spew. ↩