Leaving Through the Gate to Abstraction

Numbers have rhythms but do they have rhymes?

Could this be the gate? It could be the gate, the gate to log rhythms and rhymes. Pay no attention to that creature behind the curtains; it’s just me at the levers, playing with filters and color. Is it Art? No, it’s Yip, but it was fun getting wherever it is we is.

Numbers have rhythms but do they have rhymes?

Photo / Graphic by Roman.

Sympathy for Pigs?

I have no idea who took this photo. I have only a general idea about when and where the photo was taken. I have no clue as to the identities of the two kids in the photo, never mind the swine.

But first, let me say why I like the photo. The photographer clearly focused on the kid wrestling the pig; that was to be the center of whatever the photographer meant to convey. But in that grand old theatrical tradition of scene-stealing character actors, it is the obvious distress and anxiety of the spectating kid that really deserves your attention. Was he rooting for the boy who had maybe met his match? Was he perhaps thinking that this was a bit too much for any pig to experience? Or maybe he was thinking: I’m up next in the ring…

The pig is greased, you’ll notice. Wrestling greased pigs seems to have been something of a thing for rural county fairs and maybe still today. Why? I’m clueless though maybe it was regarded as a useful skill for future farmers in the Midwest. The photo dates from the 1960s and at that time some of the collar counties in the Chicago metropolitan area were still pretty rural.

I can tell you that the photo is from the 1960s because in 1968 or 1969 some friends of mine and I decided to run a pig as a candidate for student council president, just as Abbie Hoffman and the “Youth International Party” had run a pig for President of the United States. We never did much of anything about our student council candidate and I expect that almost no one outside our small circle even knew about it, but a callow note on the backside of the photo shows I was thinking of the photo as a nice propaganda item. I don’t even recall voting in that election. Or even who the other candidates may have been, never mind the victor. It doesn’t matter.

But I do wonder about that anxious boy watching from outside the ring.

Carnival of Aliens

a mongrel of fleas or invader from mars

Photo / Graphic by Roman.

3/30 — Where does a story begin? That depends on what story you intend to tell.

4/22 — I’ve been singing my death song all the live-long day.

(This is not what I meant to write when I sat down, pencil in hand, only to be confronted by a cannabis-induced* blank spot that removed the slightest trace of the original…

(Instead, I am beset by questions asking half empty / half full or questions for which “Yes” is truthful, correct yet contradictory or those where “No” does the same.

(What we learn from philosophy is that we learn nothing from philosophy.

(Oh, we are a voluble lot, those that gather here. The thoughts tumble one or another then sometimes one and another but sometimes call and response. It is sometimes dissonant but sometimes harmonic…

(Harmony? Yes, when sometimes we agree.)

It is, in sum, a carnival of aliens.


* Or maybe just a senior moment. After all, where does the story begin?