Ken's Blog

It was one of those downtown theatre events. Everyone who was there knew somebody in the cast, or the crew, or maybe the playwright. There was wine, and an unexpected amount of beer.

For the first few minutes of the intermission they didn’t even notice each other. A general circle of people in the conversation gradually narrowing down to four, then three, then somehow to just the two of them. He liked the sound of her voice.

“You can tell this is real theatre because the tourists don’t know about it,” she was saying.

“Yes,” he nodded conspiratorially, “The Theatre must be pure, a secret ritual. People showing up just ruins the whole thing.”

“That’s true,” she agreed. “Not even the actors should be here.”

“Oh my god,” he said, warming to the theme. “We shouldn’t be here either.”

“A bare stage,” she proclaimed, “is the only true Theatre.”

They looked at each other, as if seeing one another for the first time. In that moment, ever so slightly, the Universe shifted.

Old wounds come wrapped in shiny new packages.
From the ribbons and bows, I think: one of those
I look back on, it seems, every now, every then.
Looks like Christmas was here, all over again.

An old ghost can dress up in fancy new duds
All dapper and down for a night on the town
Sporting fresh chains, and a shiny new mask.
I was late for that party — oh don’t even ask.

We all have our secrets, you and I both,
The ones we don’t tell, which is all just as well.
I’ve been unwrapping packages, please do not stare.
My heart was inside one, I’m just not sure where.

Continuing the theme from my June 22 post — watching my own process of work and creation, and trying to figure out what I’m really doing — I realize that I am in the habit of outsourcing memory.

What I mean by this is that I often make suggestions to collaborators about what I might do that would be of use to them. Having made such a suggestion, I promptly forget all about it.

Some of the time, I get back an email saying “hey, that would be really useful”. When I receive such an email, I then remember the original train of thought, and I set about making it happen.

In effect, I am outsourcing my memory to clients. If they think something I’ve told them is worth remembering, then it’s worth remembering.

It’s wonderful that Gay Pride Day here in New York is being celebrated the day after Alan Turing’s 100th birthday. Very life affirming.

Of course straight people can also celebrate Alan Turing. Digital computation, artificial intelligence and a world in which the Nazis were defeated are not benefits bestowed only upon gay people. Straight people get to enjoy these things as well.

It’s a good thing that we stupid straight people didn’t manage to kill Alan Turing until after he had saved the world.

There can come a point while I am working on a project when I realize it connects to some other project I am also working on.

Recently I’ve noticed this happening a lot. All of the various rivulets seem to be coalescing into larger streams, which in turn are starting to merge into a single coherently flowing entity.

I wonder whether all of our projects in life are actually just facets of one big project. Like the sides of a sculpture, or the movements of a symphony, perhaps all of one’s efforts cannot help but form a single large life’s work.

We may not be aware of this while it is happening. In fact, it may be years before we see how all the pieces fit together. But even if that is so, isn’t it worth the wait?

I am a very lazy person. I delight in lounging around the apartment, raiding the fridge, taking an entire day just to read the newspaper.

Yet by most objective standards I get a lot done. How can this be? I think I have it figured out.

When there is something I really want to get done, I start to create all sorts of artificial deadlines. I schedule a talk where I need to show the demo I haven’t implemented yet, or a meeting where somebody important is coming to visit, expecting to play with software that’s still just a gleam in my eye.

Without even thinking about it on a conscious level, I tend to organize the external world of people and events around me as a forcing function, nudging my lazy soul into a completely artificial unlaziness.

The result is that I no longer need face the pressure of doing it “just for me”, since now I need to do it for them.

Of course, I am still doing it for me. 🙂

I’ve been noticing a curious thing: Every year, there are more younger people.

I’m not sure where they all come from. Perhaps there is a factory somewhere that manufactures younger people. While I wouldn’t rule this out as an explanation, I would find it surprising, given that the United States long ago outsourced its manufacturing industry to other parts of the world.

Even more mysterious is another phenomenon I’ve been noticing: Every year, there are fewer older people.

Now, I am not one to go in for conspiracy theories, but I cannot help thinking there may be some connection here. Could it be that there is some strange mechanism at work, which “converts” older people to younger people?

Perhaps they go into a kind of machine, like some sort of retrochronomic tanning salon. An older person makes an appointment, sits there and reads a magazine for a few hours, maybe on their lunch break, and Voila! a younger person comes out.

None of this really disturbs me. After all, the one reliable thing I have noticed as the years go by, is that I myself remain completely unchanged.

It is good to have at least one thing you can rely on.

I’ve been giving a number of talks lately about my work, and I’ve been noticing how each successive talk has been informed by the talks that came before it. In fact, it has become very clear to me that such a talk — particularly when the talk involves live demos — is a kind of laboratory.

The process of teaching is, of course, also a process of learning, but it’s more than that. Talking about the work is an important part of doing the work.

It’s like of like the reason a singer/songwriter goes on tour: You need to put your songs out there, and invite a kind of collaboration with your listeners.

The moment between moments, too fast to see
When everything happens that you cannot see
The rise and the fall, the second unseen
When everything happens all in between

The glint in the sun, the casual flash
A whisper, a touch, or a glance
The moments in time that melt in the rain
The whisper, just once, of romance

We live all our lives between moments like these
We wait for the breath to exhale
All ’round the world, again and again
They echo, a tale in a tale

Of a moment, one moment, too fast to see
When everything happens that you cannot see
The rise and the fall, the second unseen
When everything happens all in between

I was watching the BBC One series “Merlin”, about the fabled magician as a young boy (three cheers for streaming Netflix!) when I came upon a scene in which Merlin’s mentor is poring over an ancient text.

For about two seconds the content of the book flashed on screen, just long enough for me to capture this image:

In many ways it is a fascinating image. The production designers clearly borrowed from actual Proto-Germanic glyphs, yet they took all sorts of liberties. The horizontal axis that runs through every line in this book has no correlate in ancient epigraphy. And you can see places where the designers just went wild — I can practically hear someone saying “hey, wouldn’t it be bloody marvelous if we threw in a few sine waves?”

Whatever the process behind this slightly daft reboot of ancient Runology, I’m struck by the fact that somebody clearly worked on it for a long time. Yet it flashes by on the screen for all of two seconds.

Ah well, one thing that hasn’t changed since Merlin’s time: Life is still unfair.