The Prism of Pragmatism

I wish a had a better recall with time. I can't remember how long ago it was that I found myself explaining to my class what a prism does. And, surely, I can't remember how that subject even came up. But, I do remember what I told them. Thank God for small miracles.

It was very simple to say "It's this pyramid-shaped glass thing that takes the white light and makes colors out of it." Why complicate things? The important part is that they got the idea. Something that is commonplace, ordinary and whole can be separated into many beautiful colors. All you need is a piece of glass to aim it through.

Inevitably, someone asked an unforeseen question. "Can you shine a rainbow through the prism and get the white light on the other side?" What could I say except the truth? "I've never tried." And, a few seconds later, I added, "Besides, of what use would that be?"

Pragmatically speaking, it wouldn't be useful at all. Plain light is in great abundance while rainbows are rare. There is not much sense in taking rarities and turning them into everyday things. It's like doing reverse alchemy. Making lead out of gold.

I wish I had better recall with all things. Being pragmatic implies knowing something about pragmatism. As I remember, the pragmatic maxim alludes to the notion that our conception of the effects of something is the whole of our conception of that something. Then, my conception of the prism is my conception of the effects it has on me.

What interests me here is my mind's ability to conceive of both the object and its effects. Since nearly everything is known in relation to other things, my mind can only form concepts based on the information and experiences that it has already acquired. Which is what is loosely known as "intellect." My intellect is sadly finite. The Universe, at least according to Stephen Hawking, is infinite. There really is no chance for me to conceive of any object with complete accuracy.

Is it possible that the prism integrates the many colors of the rainbow as the white light? Then, it is only my perception that it's the other way around.

Bowl of Alphabet Soup

Nothing like a bowl of JC's 酸辣湯 Chinese soup! Especially, around the Chinese New year. Even more special, when it's the year of the Rabbit. My year.

I ate my soup too quickly. When there was only a sip or two remaining at the bottom, I lifted the bowl to my mouth and slurped in what was left. This was a good moment to be grateful for this being Chinese soup and not Korean. Koreans insist that the bowl stays on the table while you're eating. I would have been in trouble.

I put the empty bowl on the table and looked at it for a minute or two. If I call it a bowl, does it know? Does something change if I change its name? What if I called it a vessel or, with a tip of a hat in the general direction of England, a porringer? Would it change its usefulness?

I observed my bowl for a bit longer. It seems that its usefulness lies in the space that it surrounds. It is not the bowl that I wanted, it is the soup that it contained. The utility of something is in what it isn't. Another paradox. Seemingly.

As the words flow onto this blog, it is the space between them that defines them. If I were to read them out loud, it would be the silences that define the sounds. And, if I timed the sounds and the silences, the silences far prevail over the sounds.

If there were neither words nor spaces between them, this would be an uninterrupted chunk of colored space. Green, for now. The words break up the wholeness of this green page and it is no longer seen as a page at all. It fades out of the consciousness.

I wonder if the words have a similar effect on us in general. The language allows us to communicate with each other in a fairly precise manner. But, as we define objects with words, we break what is whole into parts. If I talk about somebody's arm, during that conversation the arm is mentally segregated from the rest of the body.

Language is a powerful tool. Perhaps, its power lies in its ability to segregate big things into little parts.

Discipline, anyone?

If I knew what drives me to reach for the pen, I would try to get more of it. I write when I write. Doesn't everyone?

I have heard about a discipline in writing that some subscribe to. You're supposed to make time in your day, every day, to write a certain number of words. Or pages, or paragraphs, or verses.

It just never worked for me. Not for the lack of trying. I gave it the good ole "college try." But when I wrote that way, the writing came out strained. To this day it feels as if a certain hue of predetermination spoils the white of the paper.

Lao Tsu wrote that the Tao does nothing, yet leaves nothing undone. If I want to be like the Tao, I will write nothing, yet leave nothing unwritten. It is sure to be a best-seller...

How do I pursue a discipline without pursuing it? Perhaps, something is lost in translation. After all, even the experts of the Chinese language can't agree on what the ancient characters mean.

Really, it is much simpler than the paradox implies. When I lived in Idaho, I have gone out deer hunting a few times. Getting a deer isn't a sure bet. But you definitely have no hope of getting one if you fail to get your behind off the couch.

A discipline is something we must engage in. Without going hunting, we can never get a deer. However, even if we go, we may still come home with nothing.

Resurrection of the Blog

Today, I resurrected my Blog. Read it if you like. Leave if you have other things to do. It is perfect either way.

Sometimes I feel that the falling snowflakes are the ashes of ghosts. Why else would they be so quiet on their way down?

I can see no such thing out the kitchen window today. It is another forest-gray morning in Seattle, good for drinking coffee and fishing for insights.

A large tawny cat saunters down the sidewalk across the street. I call him the Puma Cat. He lives with our neighbors up the block but seems to pledge allegiance to no one in particular. He is friendly to anyone and rushes towards you to rub his cheeks on your shins. Right now, there is no one to rub up against and he just stands there, with the Buddha-like look of neither comprehension nor incomprehension.

I hear people talk about "unconditional love" that pets give them. I wonder if it is just the opposite. It is the "unconditional love" they feel towards their pets. The kind of love they seem unable to feel towards our fellow humans; yet, the kind of love they sorely yearn to feel.