I’ve been thinking a bit about communication again recently. People say things like “actions speak louder than words”, but I think that largely applies when you’re considering the typical mix of both honest and dishonest words. If we were to assume that the words being delivered were consistently honest, it seems safe to say that our use of words, as a mechanism, is our most complete way thus far to approximate ideas or arguments we’re trying to express. The interesting thing is just how incomplete it is.

In typical verbal communication, after presenting an argument, it’s common for people to ask (or at least wonder): “Do you understand what I mean?” But that question seems pretty useless to me. Suppose you wanted to verify their understanding, and asked the person to explain their interpretation of your point. I can think of no way to actually know for certain which of the following has occurred:

1. The person understands your point, and explains it back in a way you see as accurate.
2. The person does not understand your point, but explains it back such that you think they do understand. In other words, you don’t understand their point.

Or on the flip side:

1. The person does not understand your point, and explains it back in a way that verifies the misunderstanding.
2. The person understands your point, but is unable to explain it back to you in a way that you see as accurate. Again, that means you don’t understand their point.

Other scenarios are possible, but those I imagine are most common. Of course we could deconstruct it further and ask questions like what does ‘understand’ mean anyway, since it mightn’t be possible to ever truly understand another’s point of view, but we’re still talking approximations here. And while I’ve mentioned in the past how much I appreciate the incompleteness of human communication for the sake of other realms, such as the arts, the spotty nature of our ability to connect at certain basic levels still makes me wonder.

I was thinking about what it might be like to live without history. To imagine myself without personal memory or lessons– a world where everything is new. An existence devoid of knowledge, with the potential for danger in everything; for I’d know not how to handle anything. A shifting window of the moment, lacking any memorial momentum. Progress meaningless. Slivers of experience simply lighting up coordinates on the output graph of my sensory machinery. The artwork of chaos on a canvas of feeling. The only available colors: happiness or suffering– interpreted by instinct– directed by attempts at survival.

This is merely a thought experiment, though it’s inspired by worldly patterns. Humans supposedly have a peculiar ability to record a lot more memories than we can ever recall. I wonder if the complexity that emerges beyond the flash of a moment– the fact that we can collect a stack of experience paintings in our heads– is something our brains still struggle with or fight against. And if so, I wonder if that manifests itself elsewhere. I think about the way so many people immerse themselves in enterprises that attach like a bubble over their lives, limiting connections to their own history and the surrounding world, be it through substance abuse, pleasure-seeking, or whatever else. And I wonder if it’s in fact a life without history–a life literally in the moment– that’s yearned for on some level.

Cripes, I laugh so hard every time i watch it:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e134fr-zeSw

I was thinking about the many ways we can graph the same data. With even a simple set of numbers, we can make anything from flimsy bar graphs to fancy pie charts. Be they humble paper representations or fancy computer graphics, there exist plenty of different ways to visualize the same data such that it appears to make sense. Whether the representation is ideal for a situation or not, the data remains the same. It’s all about how we view it. And so too seems life– all about the view. The difficulty is knowing which particular graph is most preferable to guide our actions in a situation.

One of the things many of us humans do is look back at past experiences and wonder things like ‘what if?’ We attempt to graph the data in different ways, and dream up new images of what could’ve been. What’s interesting at this point is considering whether the data has deeply changed– merged with new data and filtered over by imperfect memories– or if it’s primarily a new graph– a fundamentally different way of viewing the data. On which do we balance concepts like the ‘clarity’ of hindsight? In a sense I suppose it’s an unimportant question, as such pondering is usually more about usefulness than clarity, but the distinction I find stirring.

The difference between hotels and motels is the latter have doors that lead outside, rather than to hallways and such. While technically a portmanteau, I find the single letter difference charming and would like to apply it elsewhere. Hence my new word:

Meart -noun. p: [mahrt]. 1. A heart that opens directly to the outside world.

To those who write, to those who sing, to those who puke up creative things– merry little mearts be blessed. Here’s hoping it doesn’t mean something foul in some other language.

I never quite understood the phrase “It is what it is.” It seems like the ultimate redundancy. I mean, I understand what people mean when they say it, I just don’t know why they say that. I’d like to propose a spicier alternative: “Grapes are grapes”, accompanied by a deeply exaggerated, abnormally wide-eyed shoulder shrug– preferably in slow motion for added effect. Please spread the word.

I was thinking about my first impressions of people. I noticed that practically across the board, my closest friends are all people who I thought were something completely different when I first met them. And of the friendships with folks I ‘pegged correctly’ at a glance, the majority lacked any relevant longevity. This makes me wonder if it’s just a coincidence, or if some part of me finds something particularly intriguing or worthwhile about those who’ve genuinely surprised me off the bat.

were you thinking? what the hell…
what the hell… were you thinking?
were you thinking? what the hell…
what the hell… were you thinking?
were you thinking? what the hell…
what the hell… were you thinking?

I was thinking about how an infectious song chorus is sort of like a magic spell, but one for which the outcome is unpredictable. A catchy chorus needs to be simple, which suggests the message itself can’t be too specific. When it gets stuck in peoples’ heads and they begin to chant it, the meaning is far from concrete. And so too the outcome.

What I’m trying to say is that it seems: A) Popular music has to be simple in order to be widely accessible. B) The fact that its widely accessible means it has high potential to be influential. C) The fact that it’s simple means how it’s influential can’t really be predicted or designed with any great precision. In a way, I find this both fascinating and terrifying.

Yesterday marked my 28th year on this bouncy ball we humanoids call Earth. I had a great time with some great friends. My co-workers enjoy embarrassing me on my birthday, this year invoking the “Kurt Miller Thriller Dance”, which basically meant anyone who saw me had to do a particularly ridiculous dance segment from MJ’s thriller video. Seeing a gathering of programmers and clinical staff in a small room, simultaneously attempting this feat is something I can’t imagine I’ll ever forget.

One of the common questions you hear on your birthday is ‘do you feel older?’ Frankly, I don’t concern myself with such things. To be honest, I’m thrilled about just making it another year. I thoroughly appreciate every year I’m able to gain any kind of wisdom or enjoyment from this totally arbitrary, undeserved little thing called life. Despite my frequent scowling and eye rolling, I actually do cherish every moment.

On another note, this afternoon I trekked over to Watercourse to work off the birthday hangover. I was sitting next to some lady at the bar, and in typical Kurtopian fashion decided to strike up a conversation. I was able to make her laugh quite a bit in our brief time together. She had to run, but moments later the server brought over a cupcake with a candle, wishing me happy belated birthday– compliments of the lady who’d just left. Despite the fact that I’ve grown to hate nearly all sweets (saved it for a friend), the gesture was something of a rush. Thank you, stranger lady. It made my day. I hope I made yours.

It’s been cold and raining the past few days in Denver, a welcome change from the 90+ degree weather we’ve had recently. Growing up in an area with relatively consistent seasons, I didn’t particularly notice how so many aspects of my life, from mood to appetite, energy levels to outlook, seem somewhat linked to the weather. I specifically remember my first year here, having no idea how to dress on any given “spring” week, as the temperature would fluctuate from the 60s to 30s. The clothing problem was not a difficult one to solve (layers), but the peculiarities of mood changes and so on, I still find rather odd.

The interesting thing though is that a place like this provides a nice little test tube for learning more about this phenomenon. What I’ve been doing is keeping offline logs, with simple notes on things like what I’m thinking about when I wake up, any particular food cravings, how energetic I feel, and so on. And given that its entirely possible we’ll be back in the 90s a week from now, it’ll hopefully be somehow edifying for me to compare the subtleties of my daily experience that are easily forgotten or pass unnoticed. To what end? I have no idea. I’m too cold right now to think that through

There’s the moment after a morning shower, when the steam on the mirror dissipates, and a form fades in to reveal my face. It’s a moment of reflection– a moment to check that I still recognize myself, both in body and thought. The fog provides a perfect parallel to life’s puzzling haze. That which couldn’t be washed from my mind does surely reveal itself in my expression. A grimace; a smile; a freckle; a scar– the battles composing the war. And yet its a new beginning, a new day with endless potential for new directions and old corrections. The sun rises to highlight the cycle’s segment for clenched fists and flawless posture. Drenched in the radiance of possibility, I get up and go.

I did some rearranging of the ‘ol site here, primarily in the form of a new theme layout. It looks cleaner to me, and more importantly, the customizations are less hacky– which in theory allows me to more easily integrate some snazzy plugins and widgets that Wordpress supports. Please let me know if you spot any busted pages, or if the site in general looks funky in your browser.

So a truck nearly hit me today. A massive, monster of a pickup truck. I was crossing a crosswalk near work, as I guess this gentleman was actively speeding through a stop sign. We noticed each other at about the same time. I jumped back. He slammed the brakes. And it was a little too close for comfort. I’m not sure he understood why I smiled at him. I’m not sure I understand why I smiled at him. I figure I was just relieved. But it was very strange, the whole thing. I think I’d rather that not ever happen again.

I’ve been thinking about functions. A function has inputs and provides an output. E.g. square_root(x) = x^1/2. But I’ve been thinking about this specifically in terms of art, or the creative process in general. In the simplified view I’ve been considering: the context is the function. Personal experiences are the inputs. And the beauty we see is the output. Whether its a song, a painting, or an expertly crafted cookie, we typically only see the output. For the artist, the output is often an attempt at expressing (or explaining) the function’s inputs. The resulting work becomes a new set of inputs that people feed into their own functions– their own context. This configuration places particular emphasis on inputs and outputs, not the functions themselves. And that’s what’s been fascinating me recently. The functions effectively pump data in and out, layering upon each other, but they themselves seem to remain elusive.

In this view of things, the function is difficult to identify or describe because its molded by so many things. Factors (many subconscious) include mood, emotional state, health, as well as external circumstances, such as living conditions, politics of the day, and social arrangements. What I’ve been thinking about though is the case where the artist is consciously not only expressing or explaining personal experiences, but attempting to capture the context itself– a self-describing function. And the question that follows is whether their context even matters. Which in turn leads me to another question, no doubt timeless: what is the purpose of art?

One way to consider what I mean about capturing the context is to imagine that a person’s brain could be recorded– every thought, every feeling, every impulse– during their creative work. The question becomes whether “playing back” this person’s state to understand the creative output is a good thing or a bad thing. This is of course a theoretical extreme (particularly since the technology doesn’t exist yet), but it seems to me that such a thing would obliterate the observer’s function, which misses the point of what we call art in the first place. The death of interpretation. The weird thing to me though is that capturing the context– to make people understand something– seems to be the theoretical goal of many an artist. And thus there’s a natural conflict between artist and observer. A battle over interpretation. A fight against specificity. And the thought that occurred to me after thinking about all this: I believe the flaw in our ability to communicate completely is the greatest gift to the world of art. Its the very backbone. And its so delightfully, terribly human. I frickin’ love it.

I was at a restaurant with a friend a while back, and given our particular viewing angle, I saw a cute little illusion with a pair of “one way” signs out the window. Luckily she had her camera and was able to snap a photo:

I’m not sure why this came to mind today, but I remember thinking back then how it was the new logo in my head for the word ‘confusion’

Here’re links to some tunes from those on heavy rotation at the kjim-kobi labs recently:

Bullets by Gazillion

Dreams of You by The Long Division

Wicked Man’s Rest by Passenger

If I Knew Then (Instrumental) by Alex Gloworld

Under the Power of Circumstances by Half Acre Day

Fireflies by Data

We Grow (Instrumental) by BEARBOT

Trout by Skybox

Here We Are by Patrick Park

Shempi (Instrumental) by Ratatat

Just for kicks (don’t take this post seriously), I was thinking recently about what some representations other than the “circle” of life might look like. While I like the idea of recurring themes and lessons as you travel around on the circle, the biggest problem is that it doesn’t really have a beginning or an end. So I thought about the way spirals have a similar property of overlap, but include a sort of time scale as well.

For example, consider my lovely illustration:

I like that it represents areas of overlap as you progress, and that the end of the spiral can occur at any point. What I don’t like is that due to the nature of a spiral, the time to reach each overlap increases each go around, which in a way suggests that life seems to go by slower and slower as you get older. At least for myself, I find sort of the opposite occurring. My younger years seemed to move much slower than the past several.

So I began to consider the opposite representation:

The interesting thing here is how the center is sort of a defined stopping point, or singularity, and birth this time just happens somewhere out in the void (assuming of course the green point isn’t fixed.) And now it has the property where life seems to increase in momentum as you proceed.

But then I began to think about much older people. In my limited experience, its as though they reached a point where things settled down again. What is the mid-point? I have no idea, I haven’t made it there yet, but for lack of a better name, we’ve all heard of mid-life crisis:

In this image the idea is that life starts out slow, momentum builds, you reach a point in the middle where things are chaotic, and then it transfers over to the one on the right and begins to unwind.

Obviously this is purely silly speculation, but its at least fun to think about.

There are times when the world seems completely still– a vacuum– yet internally, my mind won’t stop shaking; rapid thoughts that hit like shivers on a day just cold enough to bother. There are other times when it feels like the world itself is the one trembling, quaking vigorously, and I’m the only thing on its surface that seems somehow unaffected. Still. Quiet. And observant. A world happening somewhere other than wherever I am or go. I wouldn’t describe either of these states as particularly pleasant, yet they do seem to be times of odd personal inspiration and focus.

i’m as complex as you let me be, and this complex gets the best of me;
yet our conflict doesn’t rest with me, as its the context that perplexes me;

I’ve been on a quest to find a new coffee shop. There were a few I used to regular, but I’ve been in search of something new. What I noticed while coffee shop-hopping was that each establishment seemed either really “cool”, or really lame. That is, they were either uncomfortably packed to the brim with a reasonable mix, or they were completely empty, aside from staff and the creepy guy in the corner– nibbling on his own ranch-dipped, trembling ring finger. I suppose balance truly is a tall order sometimes.

There’s something ablaze inside of me, something where my heart should be. It burns. There’s a fire inside, capricious and free, a mind of its own, where my thoughts should be. It burns. When I freeze the frame and trace the flames, the outline reveals a path for the day. Then it burns. An ephemeral treasure map. The contour, a path, too fleeting to follow, the waves and motion, too haunting and hollow. It burns– fueled by ambiguity. It sings, it dances, it’s silent, it’s still, a useless charade in the absence of will. It burns. The heat that rises and warms my head, delivers the words that could never be said. And they burn. Day by day, the flames grow dimmer, time like water, the clock hands that shimmer. They turn. And once to the fervor it’s said its farewell, my heart will find comfort in what it does well. It learns.

There’s a cute thing that happens with song lyrics: I’ll often hear a line I rather enjoy or identify with, take it in as a brand new friend, then realize later that its not actually what the singer was saying at all. I was thinking recently about a time in my youth this occurred, and I happened to find great inspiration from the mistaken words. They seemed oddly applicable to my life at the time. I remember having no urge to blindly credit anything like fate, but rather concluded it was just another way that the world converses with me. And over time I began to notice that, in a sense, the world is practically screaming at me. I began to pick up on the fact that for nearly anything, be it a billboard or a fortune cookie, there exist various ways in which I can choose to interpret it meaningfully, even if it requires a bit of creative twisting to conform contextually in my life. At worst, its just a chuckle or a shiver. At best, it yields an additional perspective on whatever I’ve got going on. And while I certainly wouldn’t take advice from something like a random phrase on a milk carton, I also wouldn’t rule out its ability to randomly inspire me– assuming I’m paying attention in the first place.

There’s a part of me that wonders if the only thing we really have is our caprice. Our moods and our thoughts, our strengths and our defects, our certainties and our worries, all have a habit of seeming so very concrete in the moment. Yet a moment later they can seem so alien, so truly lost. Similarly with the world in general, when I look at myself and those around me– in a sense I see so little in the way of permanence, beyond an illusion that’s powered by transition’s deceptive subtlety. Its like the moment you find your fingernails are too long, you realize the actual growing phase passed unnoticed. We bounce from mood to mood, and from mode to mode, which is perfectly natural. The potential trouble arises when we fail to embrace it. For our brains seem to crave certainty– a sense of control– a direction, grounding and a motive for everything. And I can’t help but surmise that it is this unnecessary and unrealistic demand that breeds both the best and worst of our delusions.

From fine weather and scattered thoughts, a walking kick has recently emerged. I pick a direction in the city and walk. A book, a journal, 23 pencils (just in case), a small stash of Starlight mints, and my music player are the only tools affixed to my travel belt. I walk. I stop. I read. I write. I drink. I draw. I talk to random people about not so random things. I count my steps along certain blocks. I trace sidewalk cracks with my mind’s crayon. I walk the same path twice with a different song playing, just to see how it feels. I compare the breeze on my fingertips to the sights and sounds in front of me. I shift my gait to sideways or backwards. I smile. I laugh at myself. I think things over. And then I do it all some more.

Its been both relaxing and mildly educational, if only in the sense that I’m finally taking a breather to actually look closely at the things that’ve been around me for the past several years– a noted shift in my “zoom level.” And that’s what refocusing my thoughts ultimately requires: twisting the zoom lens of my life until I find the level most beautiful or acceptable.

In a chat with a friend about a piece of music I was working on earlier, I said “I can’t get the transition parts just right.” And I couldn’t help but notice how far beyond my music those words apply.

I just returned from visiting Chicago with a friend of mine. It was merely a weekend trip, but exactly what I needed. Seeing the city again (I used to live there) brought back a lot of memories, the majority fond. Interacting with my older brothers was both fun and extremely inspiring, as usual. Hanging out with old friends, at the ol’ spots, was a definite blast. Eating ridiculous quantities of great vegetarian food basically ruled. And having a very good friend to travel out there with (she knew the city as well) made it all that much cooler. It really is rather amazing to me what you can pack into a weekend. Good times. Better spirits. Precisely what I needed.

I was reorganizing some files recently and came across an anime music video I put together many years ago, mainly to fool around with some video editing. I think it came out pretty well. Its kind of neat how anyone can gather a set of clips, out of context and sequence, arrange them as fit, sync them to music, and end up with a unique emotional narrative of sorts. The footage is from Naruto, and the song is by the pop singer Avril Lavigne.

Here’s a look at the final work if you’re interested:

There was some thundersnow action last night in Denver.

Tonight wraps up my final night on the Master Cleanse, a detox routine which involves consuming only a particular lemonade mix, composed of lemon juice, maple syrup, and cayenne pepper. No solid food. A friend of mine introduced me to it, and I decided to give it a go out of morbid curiosity. The original author’s regimen calls for 6-12 servings of the lemonade per day, and a minimum of 10 days participation. I averaged about 6 per day (today is day 10) and was able to maintain normal energy levels to perform effectively at my job, work out at the gym, and so on. I was actually quite surprised at how hungry and weak I wasn’t.

I kept a fairly detailed set of notes offline throughout. The first few days were pretty uneventful. I’ve done plenty of short-term water fasts, which I find much more difficult. Around day three I began to notice I had sharper vision and a better sense of smell, but these powers only lasted about two days. Day seven was a bit strange in that my body felt fatigued and I was slightly nauseas, though by the next day I felt fully normal again. I was holding out for a day ten epiphany, but alas, the rest was uneventful.

I told myself from the start I had nothing to prove, and if I felt bad or ill, I’d stop immediately. As it turns out, at no point during the cleanse did I find anything physically difficult about it. Any challenges I had to face were in my head, such as some odd food cravings that crept up, but those were pretty easy to put aside. It didn’t help that just prior to starting I decided to do some more experimental cooking at home, and thus kept finding myself browsing recipes. Towards the end I think the feeling was one of boredom, as I’d grown quite sick of the lemonade and hadn’t noticed any major benefits from the cleanse. In terms of weight loss, I dropped 15 lbs, not counting tomorrow morning’s weigh-in. The weight loss deltas per day went like this: -3, -4, -2, 0, 0, +1, -2, -3, -2.

Overall, I’m not too impressed with the whole thing. I doubt I’ll do it again anytime soon, and I wouldn’t personally recommend it to others. I felt pretty much exactly the same as normal, just without the personal and social enjoyment of food and drink. I did lose some weight, but that’s what happens under any regimen when you cut calories by a huge amount. There are far healthier ways to lose weight and actually keep it off. In fairness, I wasn’t expecting anything in particular. Others have called it eye-opening, life-enhancing, and all sorts of other flowery things, but I can’t say I really got any of that. I do wonder how much has to do with the fact that my normal diet is fairly healthy: strictly vegetarian, no fast food, and very minimal sweets. I’ve also wondered if perhaps ten days just wasn’t enough. Regardless, I’m glad to be done with it.

Update: Final morning weigh-in was -2, resulting in 17lb total loss.

I went to a Barack Obama rally this morning in Denver, not really expecting it to be quite the rock star event it turned out to be. After waiting in line for almost two hours (in freezing, windy weather), we were told the arena had reached capacity. And I was so close to the entrance! They shuffled us over to the Lacrosse field, and Obama eventually came outside to address us leftovers. He basically just spent a few minutes thanking us for coming out, encouraging us to caucus next week, and said if we were willing to stay they’d be broadcasting the speech over the field speakers. Unfortunately my camera batteries died, so I’ve only got some crummy camera phone pictures. That’s Caroline Kennedy to his left, by the way.

I don’t plan to make any kind of habit of talking politics on this journal, but I suppose I’ll make an exception here. The upcoming election is just way too important. After following pretty much all of the debates and interviews over the past many months, on both sides, Obama has emerged in my mind as not only the single remaining viable candidate saying much worth a damn, but indeed also the one I’m strongly cheering for. Its such a break from typical politics to actually be inspired by someone’s vision for our country. He actually thinks about things rather than fly off the handle. He’s a big fan of reason and evidence. He’s all for net neutrality. He’s all for open government. He understands the importance of technology development in this country, and how its directly linked to education. He appears to have a decent health care plan. He realizes we need to do a whole hell of a lot more about the environment. He’s religious but has never displayed any signs of fanaticism or obsession. He tries desperately to bring people of all kinds together. He’s as sick of media and political fear-mongering as we all are. He’s interested in talking to people, to find common ground, instead of shooting off missiles. And of course, he’s an absolutely amazing orator, inspiring people of all ages and backgrounds.

Sure, sure, like any politician (or human being for that matter), he has his problems and downsides as well. But from everything I’ve seen, the good far outweighs the bad. And that’s about enough with the political rambling.

I find it difficult to trust people who believe in “fairness” as a universal concept. That may sound strange at first, but it makes sense in a world where we have no convincing reason or evidence to believe in fairness existing at all. Regardless of what you believe (or don’t believe) about religion or humanity, its exceedingly well evidenced throughout our history that earthly happenings are not bound by any clear rules of what we call fairness. And the reason it actively worries me when people genuinely say “that’s not fair”, even in the context of them giving me something additional to make the situation “fair”, is that it deals directly with expectation.

People who believe in fairness expect it works both ways, always. They expect they’re owed something, that its naturally implied. So at a glance while a person who always tries to be fair seems like a good and righteous person, what happens when they find their notion of fairness doesn’t actually work like they think outside the confines of an objective, rule-based system or game? What happens when they realize reciprocation as we know it is largely a (positive, useful) social construct, not any kind of absolute? The results are unpredictable, and usually not so good. They feel they’re owed so much more than they have, and its not only expected but demanded. And that concerns me greatly, to say the least.