Ken’s Blog

Buddhism warns against embracing joy uncritically, without understanding its consequences. The joy that we get from each other, from human connectedness and the feeling that we are not alone, is a wondrous thing, but it also opens us up to the possibility of pain.

For with any joy comes a desire to continue that joy. And any desire creates the possibility of despair and loss. The greater is our need for connection, the more vulnerable we might be to the potential for pain.

In the West we generally don’t question the costs of our desire for joy. “Happiness is good” is a given, built into our culture like a birthright, and therefore into each individual psyche. The “third way” of Buddhism – to seek to forge a path through life that accepts joy, but is more consciously aware of the potential danger, is slightly alien to our general cultural priorities.

I often wish I were better prepared to dive into the Buddhist way of thinking from time to time – to have the mindfulness to emotionally distance myself from both my joy and my desire, so that I can see things clearly for what they are, unclouded by the fear of loss, and thereby make better choices.

Suppose I described to you the following procedure (let’s call this statement 1):

        Start with the sequence 1, 1.
        Keep adding more numbers to the sequence,
        always by summing the last two numbers.

If you started following this procedure, you’d gradually get a longer and longer sequence:

1 + 1 →2
1    1 + 2 →3
1    1    2 + 3 →5
1    1    2    3 + 5 →8
…

You might recognize this as the procedure for creating the sequence of Fibonacci numbers: 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13 … a sequence that is very useful because it describes all kinds of things in nature, such as the way populations grow, the spiraling pattern on a sunflower, and the shapes of seashells and galaxies, to mention just a few.

If I just want the n^th Fibonacci number, I might say things slightly differently (let’s call this statement 2):

If n is 1 or less, the answer is 1.

Otherwise,
    add the (n-1)^th and (n-2)^th Fibonacci numbers.

I’m guessing that everyone reading this post will be able to understand the above statement just fine, after looking at it for a few moments.

Here is how I might convey the above statement to a computer (let’s call this statement 3):

        fibonacci(n):
            if n ≤ 1 then
                1
            else
                fibonacci(n-1) + fibonacci(n-2)

Statement 3 – the one that looks like a computer program – is exactly the same as statement 2, except that writing it as a program makes it a little easier for a computer to read.

So here’s my question: Assuming we would like to put the power of programming into the hands of everybody (the way we already try to put the power of written language into everybody’s hands), would it be worthwhile to get millions of people to learn things like statement 3 – the one that looks like programming?

Or should we get both people and computers to understand statement 2 – ie: the same statement, except written out in English? Or should we work really really hard and try to figure out how to get computers to understand statement 1 – the one at the very top of this post?

Unfortunately, if you opt for choosing statement 1, you might have to wait a very long time. That kind of casual natural language description is fairly beyond what people have been able to get computers to understand. The reason is that even simple statements like “summing the last two numbers” tend to stump a computer. An inference that would seem immediately obvious to us humans, like the fact that we are referring to the last two numbers in the sequence, is incredibly difficult for a computer to work out. Computers lack our ability to figure things out from context.

I find myself wondering whether the big leap for most people would be going from statement 1 to statement 2, or going from statement 2 to statement 3. Whereas statement 1 just kind of assumes you can fill in the parts that are unsaid, statement 2 really spells things out in a way even a computer could understand. And that’s the leap that might be hard for people.

I suspect that the real hurdle might not be teaching people to read things that look like computer programming, but rather teaching people to think in a way that makes it possible to program – the kind of step-by-step way of thinking about a problem that makes it possible to get a computer to do our bidding.

Elevator etiquette generally dictates that you pretend the other passengers are not there. Here you are, trapped together in a little box with a gaggle of complete strangers, and you are all trying not to stare at each other. For some reason, people feel this unspoken taboo quite strongly, through a kind of osmotic consensus.

Things get subtly stranger as the elevator gradually fills up. The more people there are in the elevator, the more directions there are for each of you to avoid looking. The important thing is not to accidentally acknowledge anybody else, since this would certainly bring down some terrible wrath from the Gods, and most likely end all reality and existence as we know it.

But when you are entering the elevator with a friend or colleague, there is the time-worn strategy of continuing the conversation that you and they had been holding before you’d entered the elevator. As a group of two or three people, empowered by numbers, you can just pretend that the elevator ride isn’t happening, whilst you and your colleagues and amigos make your collective way down to that sandwich shop around the corner.

In its own way, it’s a brilliant solution. Why not simply collectively ignore this unfortunate detour into civilization’s little chamber of vertical alienation? Why not just continue discussing Kierkegaard, or that Simpson’s episode, or that Simpson’s episode about Kierkegaard? Before you know it, the doors will open and you can all escape back to reality.

Which is all well and good, until another group of likeminded comrades enters from another floor, with pretty much the same idea in mind. They bring their conversation to the elevator, pointedly ignoring the presence of your group. Meanwhile, after the briefest of pauses while your group sizes up these rude upstarts, you and your friends resume your conversation, perhaps just a bit louder than a moment before.

This strange ritual continues all the way down to the lobby. For if the sound of two individuals ignoring each other in a tiny space is silence, the sound of two groups of people ignoring each other in that same little space is cacophony.

When at last the elevator door opens, both groups pour out and continue their respective conversations, each carefully failing to acknowledge that anything at all has just happened.

But something has.

Today is quite a calendar day for William Shakespeare. The great playwrite was born on April 23 1564, and passed away exactly fifty two years later, on April 23 1616. Oddly, even though Miguel Cervantes, Mr. Shakespeare’s great Spanish contemporary, also died on April 23 1616, Shakespeare’s outlived Cervantes by ten days.

This is due entirely to the fact that Cervantes died in a Catholic country, where people actually paid attention to Papal edicts. Spain had already switched over to the new-fangled Gregorian calendar, whereas England would not desert the Julian calendar (which had worked great in Caesar’s time, but over the centuries was gradually drifting out of sync with the seasons) until 1752.

The British may simply not have noticed the ever increasing oddness of the seasons, since what the English call “summer” is what most people in the world generally refer to as “winter”. Consistent with this theory, Russia – which is even further north than England – did not adopt the corrected calendar until 1918 – and even then a violent Communist takeover was required. The Russians clearly take their calendar reform very seriously.

All of which would probably have seemed very amusing to Mr. Shakespeare. When I was in high school the teachers tried to get us interested in Shakespeare. Oh how they tried. It was all a complete waste of time – somewhat like trying to get your dog to watch TV. We would just roll our eyes and pretend to pay attention.

Interestingly, two years later when I transferred to Harvard I suddenly became completely smitten with Shakespeare. I developed a deep love and devotion for the comedies, the tragedies, the historical plays, the sonnets, even the hokey Zeffirelli movies.

I suspect that this sudden interest was strongly related to the fact that lots of the Radcliffe girls were really into Shakespeare. Showing up for the Immortal Bard was a great opportunity to hang out with really cute female classmates. Actually appreciating Shakespeare scored you even more points.

By the time I graduated, sure enough I had developed a true and lifelong love for all things Shakespearean. In a later era of history – centuries after the Elizabethan age – this process would come to be known as “transference”. No offense to Sigmund Freud, but I’m pretty sure there is nothing about transference that Bottom the Weaver couldn’t have told you after spending a night with Queen Titania. 😉

I’ve been thinking about the rather odd fact that by living in the heart of Manhattan I am actually living the “greenest” American lifestyle. Strangely, it turns out that when you live in a crazily dense metropolis such as ours, you consume remarkably little energy.

You walk everywhere (or otherwise, mainly taking the subway), you don’t own a car, you carry your groceries home from a place right around the corner, to which goods had been shipped efficiently in bulk (at low energy cost per consumer), the heat to warm your apartment in winter also warms the apartments around you (rather than dissipating out through a roof) – the list of energy savings from densely packed living goes on and on.

It would be, quite literally, impossible for anyone owning a car and a house, no matter how conscientious or responsible, to achieve as eco-friendly a lifestyle as the average New Yorker obliviously going about life in Manhattan.

This situation highlights an odd contradiction between perception and reality. In our society you don’t get “goodness” points for making the best choices – you get those points for having the best attitude about your choices. Nobody pats Manhattanites on the back and says “Hey, way to go – thanks for helping to save our planet!” Because they know Manhattanites aren’t working for it. We happen to live in a highly earth-friendly way compared with other Americans – but there’s no effort going on.

And sure enough, I confess to feeling no sense of accomplishment about my naturally green lifestyle. I do sometimes feel bad for all those millions and millions of people in the U.S. who don’t get to live in Manhattan. But for entirely different reasons.

🙂

This last weekend I saw two movies that were perfect opposites. They weren’t even oil and water, they were more like oil and armadillo. One was Tamara Jenkins’ exquisite indie film “The Savages”. The other was the Adam Sandler vehicle “You Don’t Mess with the Zohan.”

I enjoyed both thoroughly, and I found myself thinking what an amazing world this is, where a viewer can access, and heartily enjoy, two such disparate forms of entertainment. For those of you who haven’t seen it, “The Savages” is a dark, subtle character study, somehow Brechtian and romantic all at once. With the finest acting duo you might ever see on screen – Philip Seymour Hoffman and Laura Linney – making beautiful dystopian music together. Every scene between them is a study in perfection, built upon carefully woven layers of close psychological observation and misdirection. Beautiful and deeply moving, like a Mahler symphony.

“Zohan”, on the other hand, is not so much a Mahler symphony as a Silly Symphony. Rude, crude, and in your face funny, it smashes its comic target square on the jaw and keeps on punching. Ostensibly a comic farce about an Israeli counterterrorist, it’s actually about the U.S., and our country’s strange fantasies and misguided notions about Zionists, Palestinians, the conflict in the Middle East, and our own peculiar immigrant dreams.

For once Adam Sandler is going after a target he knows really well – our crazy American fantasy about Zionism. I found myself thinking back on my recent blog post about Jews versus Italians. True, American Jewish men in our culture are not supposed to be sexy. But Isreali Jewish men are. They are the warriors, rightful descendents of the Maccabees, and we look to them with a kind of fevered awe and cockeyed reverence. Sandler and company make perfect fun of that reverence.

I wonder what would happen if you were to edit these two films together, patching scenes from “The Savages” in with scenes from “Zohan”. The dark, understated indie character study, all calibrated silences and emotions too subtely devastating to speak aloud, sliced together with an over the top cultural farce about a comic superhero, absurdist icon for our time, blithely squirting Hummus over everything he sees with raw sexual abandon.

I think it could work.

Does anyone have any inspired ideas for other potential movie mashups?

Marriage’s offenses reportedly expose
A clashing rage or sparking temper. I can suppose
‘Tis only true eternal love. Light inspires flames.
Youth overwhelms unthinkingly, adulthood reclaims
Every raging emotion, always dramatic,
Incendiary – no grandiose – basically ecstatic.
‘Tis wild exuberance, even now the heart
Exulting love’s inspired never ending start.

Today I attended an event – a “public conversation” – in which two very accomplished individuals, one a neuroscientist and the other a performance artist, discussed the twin subjects of attention and memory. The neuroscientist brought insights about what happens inside our brain – insights that come from experimental research results – while the artist’s insights were more intuitive and experiential. They ended up agreeing on quite a few points.

At one point the scientist observed that conscious multitasking is a myth. You cannot actual do several tasks well at once, if each task requires conscious attention. When you think you are talking on the phone while reading email, your brain is actually just switching rapidly between these tasks – while doing neither one well. You may fool yourself into believing that you are more efficient this way, but in fact quite the reverse is true.

The artist described focusing attention as central to her work. An audience is only taken to an interesting place if you can derail its pat expectations – she called this “the wisdom of the jump cut”. You need to wake the audience up, surprise it, jolt it out of the mindset that things are merely playing out as expected according to some pre-scripted version of reality.

The neuroscientist and performance artist used very different language, yet I felt that both were converging on a common theme: That the quality of our lives is highly dependent on our ability to pay attention – to bring an uncluttered sense of presence to the experiences we have in life. Whether through study, practice, zen meditation, breathing exercises or other means, the ability to focus on what really matters to us without becoming distracted or scattered is perhaps our most valuable asset.

This ability to focus is what allows us to strengthen the neural pathways that lead to learning and mastery of skills, and enables us to override whatever momentary impulses may pull us away from our deeper goals

Isn’t it odd then, I find myself thinking, that our modern culture is built around constant distractions. Television, magazines, billboards, radio and internet – so many things vie for our attention, pulling our focus this way and that. We are a nation of Harrison Bergerons from Vonnegut’s cautionary pen, forced to listen to non-stop clatter, lest our unfettered minds break out and do something dangerous.

Could our culture ever evolve to a place where truly centered focus and attention are prized and encouraged? Or is that asking too much?

Today I am taking some stuff from one computer graphics program I’ve been writing and bringing it into another computer graphics program. My plan all along has been to put them together, but it was a lot easier to create them in separate pieces – each in its own workshop, at it were – and then assemble them together later.

The first program is a demo of how to get an interactive animated character to figure out where to place its feet when walking around in a virtual world. The second program is a demo of how those feet should actually move through the air between footsteps – how to lift a foot off the ground, land again, bend the toes, add more or less “spring” to the step, walk on tiptoe, and so on.

To do this I need to separate out the “demo part” of the code in the first program from the core stuff that does the actual work. By “demo part” I mean that part of the program responsible for displaying things on the screen in nice shapes and colors, as well as the sliders, buttons, and all the other widgets that let you play around with the program. Those parts of the code are important – like the the steering wheel and body and tires of your car – but I don’t really need to take anything with me except the engine and transmission.

It occurs to me, thinking about what I am doing, that essentially I am packing up for a trip. I need to figure out what is essential to take with me – what won’t already be available where I am going – and to avoid lugging around too much other stuff that’s hard to pack and that I can probably find anyway at my destination.

And so for the first time in my life I understand that the notion of “packing up stuff to take with you” is not really situated in the real physical world – that is just one example of where this notion shows up. Rather, it is situated in the mind – in our human brains. We create the concept of packing, because that’s the way our minds work, and then we impose this concept onto the physical world around us.

Things like wallets and duffel bags and toiletry cases are not primarily physical objects. Such things certainly exist in the physical world, but only because we have willed them into existence. Rather, they are primarily extensions of a way of thinking that is already there inside each individual human brain, and that is shared between all human brains.

Obviously we are not the only species that has such constructs in our brains. Squirrels and bees and dogs and countless other species share this proclivity for bundling stuff up and taking it from here to there. But we humans do it in a particularly elaborate and generative way, like everything we do.

And so, after writing this, I will continue my packing, preparing to take the eerily non-physical journey from one folder of my computer to another – between two of my little workshops, both of which just happen to be virtual. If distance is measured by the effort of travel – by how much you need to pack – one could say this is a somewhat longish journey, but far from the longest I have taken.

I am left with the thought that this mental pattern is probably found in a lot more places than we realize – in romantic relationships, literary discussions, business understandings and family ties. There are the various “places we live or visit” and the “stuff we need to pack up so we can take it with us”.

And now, back to work. I need to pack my toothbrush, but not my bathroom….

Two empty glasses sparkle in the light
While I stand within the doorway in repose
And watch them for a moment, for I chose
To leave them as a token from the night
As though the hours hadn’t sped on by
And unwelcome daylight hadn’t come at all
As though the foolish Sun had missed her call
And forgotten to appear within the sky
But the curs’d glasses sparkle all the same
Reminding me the all too faithful Sun
Has heralded another day begun
I turn away and softly call your name

      How pale seems this early morning light
      Compared with one now gone with ended night