Creativity is just connecting things

when you ask creative people how they did something, they feel a little guilty because they didn’t really do it, they just saw something. it seemed obvious to them after a while. that’s because they were able to connect experiences they’ve had and synthesize new things. and the reason they were able to do that was that they’ve had more experiences or they have thought more about their experiences than other people.

unfortunately, that’s too rare a commodity. a lot of people in our industry haven’t had very diverse experiences. so they don’t have enough dots to connect, and they end up with very linear solutions without a broad perspective on the problem.

the broader one’s understanding of the human experience, the better design we will have.

--steve@apple.com

the road

although the story is as slow, long and winding as the journey therein described, cormac mccarthy's haunting touch of symbolism and allegory is remarkable. select passages which struck this reader follow... an abstract purposefulness guided by the state of an empty, tortured land...

"Reflecting back the sun deep in the darkness like a flash of knives in a cave." p.35

"Tattered gods slouching in their rags across the waste. Trekking the dried floor of a mineral sea where it lay cracked and broken like a fallen plate. Paths of feral fire in the coagulate sands." p.44

"He walked out in the gray light and stood and he saw for a brief moment the absolute truth of the world. The cold relentless circling of the intestate earth. Darkness implacable. The blind dogs of the sun in their running. The crushing black vacuum of the universe. And somewhere two hunted animals trembling like ground-foxes in their cover. Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it." p.110

"He thought each memory recalled must do some violence to its origins. As in a party game. Say the word and pass it on. So be sparing. What you alter in the remembering has yet a reality, known or not." p.111

"'Where men can't live gods fare no better.'" [old man] p.145

"...dwindling slowly on the road behind them like some storybook peddler from an antique time, dark and bent and spider thin and soon to vanish forever." p.147

"Bleak dawn in the east. The alien sun commencing its cold transit." p.150

"The soft black talc blew through the streets like squid ink uncoiling along a sea floor and the cold crept down and the dark came early and the scavengers passing down the steep canyons with their torches trod silky holes in the drifted ash that closed behind them as silently as eyes." p.152

"...and the bleak and shrouded earth went trundling past the sun and returned again as trackless and as unremarked as the path of any nameless sisterworld in the ancient dark beyond." p.153

"I was crying. But you didn't wake up./ I'm sorry. I was just so tired./ I meant in the dream." p.154

"Out there was the gray beach with the slow combers rolling dull and leaden and the distant sound of it. Like the desolation of some alien sea breaking on the shores of a world unheard of." p. 181

"The razorous shoulder blades sawing under the pale skin. ...and listened to the roll of the surf in the bay. The long shudder and fall of it. ..." p.184

"There were few nights lying in the dark that he did not envy the dead." p.194

"Ten thousand dreams ensepulchred within their crozzled hearts." p. 230

grey coastlines and silhouettes

New Jersey Turnpike ridin' on a wet night
'neath the refinery's glow, out where
the great black rivers flow
License, registration, I ain't got none
but I got a clear conscience
'Bout the things that I done
Mister state trooper, please don't stop me
Please don't stop me, please don't stop me

Maybe you got a kid, maybe you got a pretty wife
the only thing that I got's
been both'rin' me my whole life
Mister state trooper, please don't stop me
Please don't stop me, please don't stop me

In the wee wee hours your mind gets hazy,
radio relay towers lead me to my baby
Radio's jammed up with talk show stations
It's just talk, talk, talk, talk,
till you lose your patience
Mister state trooper, please don't stop me

Hey, somebody out there, listen to my last prayer
Hi, Ho, silver oh, deliver me from nowhere

-- b.s.

in verse and vernacular

today i came across two pieces of literature i hope to explore further: meditations in an emergency by frank o'hara and tompkins square park by q. sakamaki.

the former, a collection of verses delving into the culture of mid-twentieth century americana - the latter, a photographic tale of poverty, protest, and progress in new york city's lower east side during the late 1980s. the photographer's modern pieces are informed by his continuous observation of human misery during his years living in one of new york's more destitute neighborhoods. sakamaki has captured the struggles of the less fortunate across many countries; his pictures can be viewed here.

the road, a fictional work by cormac mccarthy, also awaits my examination.

structured light

hell

cut
inside out
caged

venemous, cut in spite
blood in spit
shivering
flickering

do not disturb


.

06:14

walking back home from the library.
birds awake, riot on tree tops.
the sun is still below the horizon.
the sky is deep aqua-green, it seems not of this earth.
i wish i had my camera.
but in the cloudy twilight, no digital box can capture
this indescribable colour.

literature & citizenship & revolution

this past thursday students and the general public were treated to a conversation with arthur danto, established american art critic, and orhan pamuk, turkish novelist and 2006 nobel prize laureate in literature. the event took place on campus at miller theater, for free, and was part of a series of events being held to recognize vaclav havel's fall residency here at the school. havel is a czech writer and playwright, but in the late 80's he was also one of the leaders of the velvet revolution, the bloodless revolution which at last overthrew the communist government of czechoslovakia in december 1989. havel then retained the position of president of the czech republic. his is a wondrous story, having been imprisoned for years for political activity in theater and the arts.

A demonstration on Wenceslas Square in Prague on the twentieth anniversary of Jan Palach's death. Palach was a philosophy student who, on January 19, 1969, committed suicide by self-immolation in protest of the Warsaw Pact force invasion of Czechoslovakia. Two decades later, during what became known as "Palach Week" between January 15th and 21st 1989, thousands of police and militia clashed with thousands of demonstrators. Havel was among several activists who received prison sentences for "hooliganism" during these events. Source: Human Rights Watch Archives, Columbia University (Entry ID: 001005)




October 1989: protestors in Prague face riot police, shouting, "We have empty hands!" Source: The Charter 77 Foundation (Entry ID: 001023)









the danto/pamuk conversation ranged widely over various topics from the past and present, but generally focused on the relationship between literature and citizenship, as the title of session intended. at first it seems there is not much of a relationship, purported danto, and wondered what role citizenship plays in countries like the czech and turkey. over the next hour and a half, however, it became clear that a writer is most often influenced by the people and the places and the ideas of his/her country, although the idea and value of citizenship varies from nation to nation. it was also interesting to hear pamuk's journey as a writer: a young man from a wealthy family who wanted to be a painter, but, discouraged by his mother, decided to be a writer; a writer whose father left for paris and lost almost all their wealth; a writer who roamed the earth for decades, writing and smoking, and exploring, partially financially funded by his father until he was 30. he will be writing two more novels as sequels to his latest novel istanbul: memories and the city. pamuk came across as somewhat grumpy, and usually simply responded to danto's questions, never positing any questions of his own; the conversation thus became more of an interview.

pamuk, like havel, seemed like a man with strong convictions. in 2005, pamuk made statements regarding the armenian genocide of 1915-1917, where hundreds of thousands (or perhaps millions) of armenians were killed by the turkish government during the reign of the ottoman empire. he believed the turkish government was hiding the truth from its people in order to preserve turkish nationality. for his statements, pamuk was criminally charged. after much legal action and recrimination, by amnesty and the international community, the charges were dropped in 2006. pamuk has stated that his comments were made to expose the issue of freedom of speech in turkey, where citizenship is thought of, not as an ideal of freedom as it is in north america, but as a duty to the state and a form of obedience. although the belief is true, whether this was his initial intention is anyone's guess.

sigur ros

sigur ros, band out of iceland since 1994, released their first album in 1997. they have a really amazing sound, and make some very cool videos. if you just wanna chill out in another world, this is some great music. i dont even know how to describe it; features of radiohead stretched further along n-dimensional axes - a must listen. here's one video i enjoyed, just a sample from the multitude of sounds these guys can play (the lead guitarist often uses a cello bow on his electric guitar, dramatic effects)...

Hoppipolla by Sigur Ros (from the album Takk)


another song you should check out, and the song that got me hooked on sigur ros, is untitled 8 from the album (). this makes iceland 2/2 for musicians ive heard from the country and musicians i like (bjork)! perhaps more musical treasures are hidden on that far off island..

"the path to ruin"

this past wednesday students had the distinct priviledge of attending a conversation between jonathan ledgard, a foreign correspondent with the economist since 1996, and jeffrey sachs, one of the most important economists of our time. he was economic advisor to bill clinton, and is currently professor of health policy and management here at columbia, and fills many other capacities as well. he is a special advisor to the secretary of the un, and director of the un millenium project. in 2005 his book the end of poverty was published (perhaps some time i will get around to reading it).

the purpose of this live seminar/conversation/debate was to explore the factors involved in creating the abject conditions in the region of the sahel (see map), especially somalia and the sudan; specifically, they examined the causes for the deep instability leading to wars and, worse yet, genocides, as seen in darfur.

sachs is known for his holistic, enviromental approach of dealing with the crises in the sahel. he believes that three environmental factors lead to societal backlash and political unrest: 1) inability to grow food, 2) disease, 3) physical isolation (from resources). i think these three are very much connected since disease often stems from lack of proper nutrients and medical attention.

he also showed an interesting graph which charted the precipitation in the sahel region over the past 90 years or so. from about 1910 to 1960, rain was abundant during rainy season. however, since about 1970, there hasn't been one significant rainy season. researchers used to believe that the region was so arid due to the constant mining of the environment (cutting down trees, plants, removing water/nutrients from the ecological system), but now contend that these dramatic changes seen over the past century are the result of global climate changes, including changing sea surface temperatures.

these environmental factors are easy ignore when thousands are dying in wars, and governments remain shackled and powerless. in fact, currently somalia is without a standing government. by tackling the underlying environmental and health issues, sachs argues, societal unrest and political upheaval will decrease.

to exacerbate circumstances, enter the taliban. the taliban movement is actively involved in recruiting members to its legions, and to the thousands suffering in extreme poverty, any tangible group promising hope may be welcomed. indeed, the taliban controls many courts in central and western somalia, and there are fears that by inciting violence against the other political parties of somalia, and against neighbouring ethiopia, another war is looming. to make matters more interesting, ethiopia is a predominantly christian nation, and has the backing of the united states.

according to ledgard, there have been 41 genocides/politicides since 1955. truly an astounding number. efforts have been made to predict when and where a genocide may occur; in fact, there are 7 risk factors or indicators that are actually quite accurate in predicting the occurence of a genocide. somehow, despite these early warning systems within the cia, financial commitment to the program is lacking. investments by the usa to an instable region are almost always military, despite any warning indicators: $550 billion in military development/activity versus $4 billion in societal developmental programs (food, medication, water, housing, tools, etc). sachs believes that by funding such societal developmental programs, the root causes of the political unrest and the wars will be eliminated. sachs is imploring governments to shift their financial targets from the military to the people and the land of the impoverished nations.

ledgard has written an article (titled the path to ruin) in the august 10th issue of the economist aptly describing the dire state of affairs in the horn of africa.

lastly, ledgard commented on the state of journalism. despite the increased need to aid the people of africa, media coverage of the region has actually decreased in the past decade. even the bbc has scaled back its deployment of reporters to the area. he finds this depressing, and yet challenging, urging journalism students to continue to fight to bring the important truths to the rest of the world. the internet has increased the pace of the 24/7 news cycle, and as a collective society, we rarely have time to engage in substantial discussion about each important topic.

sachs of course has his critics. there are many who believe that throwing more money at the problem has been tried before, and has failed. one man, professor william easterly at new york university, is an especially strong critic (it has been reported that the two men are not on speaking terms). i agree with easterly in some ways: much of any financial aid provided to these nations is largely swallowed by corrupt officials, thus necessitating a grassroots effort aimed at helping one family and one village at a time. this perspective eschews the holistic approach advocated by sachs. more about this can be found online.

unfortunately, i wasn't afforded the opportunity to ask sachs a couple of questions, he was ushered out quickly; but he is speaking again soon, so maybe next time. overall, the event was very informative and engaging. although the subject itself was despairing, it was in a way inspiring to see people think and question and act in a way to bring about some form of change. although, even to the most strong willed of men, the ending of poverty may seem a Sisyphean task.

Bam shicka bam shicka boom boom boom
Shalang shalang boom shalang shalong boom
Bam shicka bam shicka boom boom boom
Shalang shalang boom

spiritus ex machina (iv)

Inhale quickly, deeply. Last stick of satisfaction, enjoy it. He searches his dirty pockets for loose change. Even his lighter is empty now, spent it. He pulls up his collar, back pushed against the brick wall. But there is no respite - the icy, biting wind is unheeding and incessant.

The embers of his cigarette glow fiery orange. No one notices in this bleak setting. Alone, he gazes into the world, thoughts vapid. It's this town, God forsaken shit town. It surrounded his vacant eyes. The empty shelves, the empty store, the empty parking lot, the empty homes, the empty...

Exahle, slowly. Let the poison seep out. He watches for his breath to linger in the air, but its every curve is affected with a forceful insouciance. A grey, woolen blanket that offers no warmth, it hung upon this town always, dull, heavy, joyless, "like second hand smoke", suffocating.

He closes his eyes and inhales, some satisfaction. Behind the warm shutters of his eyes, ah, some fiery color, the pulsing colors of glowing life, feeling the chemicals move through his blood, soothing his skin, appeasing some dark corner of his mind. Death by internal ablation, how thorough. My interpretations of reality are formed by merely these, different amounts of different chemicals: neurotransmitters, passing information from neuron to neuron, synaptic certainties. We are chemical machines.

Her embers glow brightly. 1,2,3... Dissipation. But if these chemicals determine how I behave, how I act, who controls these chemicals? Am I slave to these chemical interactions? Are my actions predetermined by a biological fate? Who then, or what, is 'I'?

Eyes open. He looks to the earth. The wind is still vitriolic, biting at his ears, and it is snowing. He sucks in the last remnants of satisfaction. Her orange embers flicker, suffering now it seems, for the end is near. Their's was a tacit relationship: she was never spared. An empty, vague apathy pervades this town, it occurs to him, insomuch as to border a collective nihilistic consciousness. God forsaken shit town. He feels the fire singe his fingertips, but within this shroud of numbness, it makes him feel real. A few more seconds, please...

He drops the stub to the cement. The snow is blowing almost horizontally through the air, pull your collar up fella, but it is in vain, his walk from here is into the wind. As intangible as the wind may be, ever more the ephemeral mind. These chemicals change and act in response to external stimuli. Thus, if my actions are defined by a series of sensory inputs, then perhaps these chemicals simply move through a series of states of being, states of mind, to define each of my actions. Inputs and outputs, cause and effect, this human complex, this self, can it be defined so simply, as an automaton?

Colder and faster, the flakes cut at his frigid skin. The snow, more than a foot deep, touches his knees, and he feels the ice creep into his bones. As the white blanket envelopes him, a furtive darkness has crept across his thoughts. Motionless, breathless, disembodied, spiteful, where the fuck is she? Alas, abandoned, by machinations of an immutable reality. A small house appears, bare and callous, perhaps there is warmth within.

A young girl of forgiving countenance has opened the door, but he cannot see her clearly now; beyond her stands a tall mirror. The reflection in the mirror becomes focused, and he can see himself: he is naked. The girl's voice is mellifluous and yet muffled by the howling winds. He is immobile, but he perceives, engrossed by the reflection. The body can never define the self, it is but a vessel for the burgeoning perceptions and ideas of the mind; it is merely the finite construct with which the mind may effect actions upon reality. But reality can-

The reflection is changing rapidly. He sees himself, an inchoate shadow in the middle of a deserted four-way intersection, and down each path, it seems to him, he can see forever, but he is still immobile. Perception and idea. If I am an automaton, defined by inputs and predictable outputs, the path I take is already decided. If, in this infinite space behind my eyes, this self, my self, can assert its will upon reality, however, then I become the actuator. And yet, my decision, though freely chosen, will be based on external information, inputs, I perceive in my reality. Furthermore, my decision, though freely chosen, will be based on the deterministic properties of cause and effect; specific knowable consequences will follow from my actions. But reality can-

The reflection is changing rapidly again. He sees himself as he is. Perception and idea. Free will of the self and the deterministic nature of the physical world may coexist; the self, an automaton of free will, is guided by the deterministic nature of reality. Yet, the self specifically, actuator of this automaton, remains utterly intangible. The door slams shut. A shadow passes through the gloomy white landscape, mindscape, inscape.

Eyes open. He has fallen. Frostbite, he thinks, a certain appropriation of the senses, even of time. He listens for voices and tries to scream, scream!, scream!! The wind is howling. A sickening dizziness stirs within him the thoughts of her burning, glowing embers. The young girl may find him in time. A fiery orange flame to melt all things frozen...

On the icy cement, the once burning stub is now nearly frozen. Save the cutting winds, there is no sound, but for the falling snow, there is no movement. An eerily calm violence has descended. This much is true, eventually all lights go out. Exhale.

viG ©