field notes (06/19/2017) [*50th entry*]

Had the crow experience of a lifetime this morning. Will try to recount it in the fullest detail possible.

Last night I didn’t sleep well. For a week or two I’ve been without much coffee but during the day yesterday had a few cups – normally these many cells process that caffeine quickly but it seems likely that was why I tossed and turned. At 4:41 p.m. I gingerly crawled out of bed to meditate – felt pretty distracted, with lots of intrusive thoughts – and then at 5:00 kept hearing crows. Sounding close but not necessarily outside of the house – at least 2 or 3 of them.

After a while they broke my attempt at a meditative trance and I had to go see them. Grabbed my bag of snacks (corn) and went out onto Selby. Thought I was hearing them a block west and ventured out – expecting to see them in the tall roost-spot past Pierce on the north side of the street. No luck. Turned left down Pierce and quickly realized there were about 3 or 4 crows a block in past Augustine’s. Walked up the street- their cacophony was remarkable and chattery almost to the point of annoyance. The thick, lush green trees – and dark-ish sky, perhaps on a 2.9/10 brightness setting – made it hard to see the little avian monkeys. Their caws were in bursts of three or four and extremely consistent. As I approached I made a few ‘kawwwhhh, kawwhhh’ noises and shook my keys. Then I walked directly beneath the trees, over a manhole cover next to a basketball hoop (east side of the street). I grabbed handfuls of corn and poured them onto the manhole cover. They clicked and clacked and rained their clattery sound onto the ground and to my surprise the crows were rather responsive. It seemed clear as I did this handful after handful – at least 5 or 6 of them – that the birds were watching, and one rearranged itself (seemingly to get a better view).

I continued to alert them with noise and the 4-or-so crows quickly became 10. The most I could count (as they were moving) was 10, but I believe a few were in my periphery. Continued south to the middle-end of the block and laid down a few noticeable ‘lines’ of corn – perhaps 12-18 inches long, 3 or 4 inches thick, and just about 1 layer of corn tall or heightwise. Yellow enough to be bright and visible but not voluminous enough to deplete my entire supply. I laid out one or two of these on the ground and another on a blue recycling can – the crows were extremely loud at this point, and many more were flying in (primarily from the west end of Pierce, above the trees).

Wow – it was exciting. Always I am hoping that they are comfortable or at least unalarmed by my presence, which is to some obvious extent intrusive and loud, and if they are not unalarmed or comfortable my second hope is that they will comfortably leave. Or fly away. What sucks is the possibility that crows needing rest, or really just trying to roost in one spot, or that are otherwise unwilling to take off and fly away from me, are irritated by my presence. So this morning as they screamed and gathered I kept wondering if I was bothering them – scaring them – enraging them – etc. But as they were summoning one another (within a matter of 5 minutes there were 2 dozen large birds) and screaming together over my head, which has certainly never happened in the absence of food before, I must think there was some positive reward response associated with their screams. (Later tomorrow I’ll get back over there to see if they snacked on any of it – do crows even eat corn? Don’t ask me!)

Waving my keys on my carabiner (this is a sort of Pavlovian stimulus that I introduce when I feed the crows anywhere) I walked south into the intersection of Pierce and Hague. Wave wave wave keys, drop drop drop some food, caw caw caw, sing sing sing. A common and monotonous attempt at engagement – and, for my neighbors, probably a sickening morning regularity. There were so many crows (or corvids? Ravens? Hm.) above me that I didn’t know what to do or think. Just black mass after black mass, dipping and swooping like planes, but never getting close or suggesting outward aggression. Unless I am completely ignorant to their own aggressive strategies. Together they could have shredded my scalp (or worse) and instead they simply screamed like an avian chorus and made me super duper happy. I kept laying out seeds and lovingly cooing “hello, babies!!!”

Walked back northward after a while. Those few moments with a zillion birds around me felt like a zillion years. Really admired the big fat one that was atop the roof on the NE intersection of Pierce & Hague. It was short, squat, and had the same inward neck-thrust (head upwards, body fat) as a few ravens on youtube – at least, that was what my memory suggested. For some reason this one bird (on a roof instead of trees or in the air) caught my attention as I was walking through the crowstorm back towards Selby. I walked past Selby and onto Dayton a bit, seeing yet another fatty (maybe the same one from the roof) doing the inward-neck-thrust-guttural-call from atop a tree. NE end of Dayton & Pierce. Hm.

Went home. Scattered corn around the house as I arrived – also put a few round masses of the yellow stuff onto the roof. Then crawled back into bed with a cute girl as the crows kept hollering outside.

field notes pt. 1 (06/16/2017)

these are being written after-the-fact. didn’t have a notebook yesterday.


 

Quite a day in St. Paul. Was at work around 4:00pm on the computer. Facebook messaging a comrade to offer her some thanks & affirmation when she let me know that the verdict came thru on officer Yanez. Not guilty on all charges.

Funny how we are taught to believe that progress – time – passage of years, decades – exist. Or hold relevance. There is absolutely no correlation between the passage of time and the improvement of social circumstances. None. A fictitious civil rights era is touted by the establishment today & folks are quick to rest when they’ve been told that we all have equal rights. So as soon as the little red notification (one new message) popped up, & I clicked that chat window, & heard the news – it was like stepping into a time machine. This is Alabama with Parks & Mississippi with Till. One can only hope that Philando – who suffered brutality as Till did – is as highly revered by the history books (& the masses) as Parks. At the very least he is revered by the masses of St. Paul – we’ll see about the history books.

Immediately after clocking out I messaged a few folks about getting down to the State Capitol. Juliette joined me – after a few moments trying to gather myself at the house we took off. Walked up to University ave & hopped on the light rail – of course, it was more packed than I’d ever seen it. I was expecting a ton of Metro Transit officers to be cashing in on the opportunity: so many young bodies, & people of color, headed to the capitol…you’d think they would have been very aggressive trying to ticket people on the light rail. Add more coins to their piggy banks. Luckily, the train we were all getting on didn’t have any bacon boys in sight.

Got to Capitol/Rice street station and wow…..the people. So many people. As Juliette and I approached the inside of my chest was searing – the heat of excitement, of belonging, of antagonism against the state. It was almost like a massive inferno and we were the orange yellow hot hot hot dancing burning combustion. Flames already licked and ate and swallowed each and every municipal surface & sent the group’s smoky cries for justice up to the heavens. But the smoldering coals and carbon-clad ashes upon which this fire burned were pure sorrow. Pure, loving sorrow. The flip side of love is not hate – in fact, I don’t think love has a flip side. But love certainly has a cousin, and a teacher, and a source: very often it is this indescribable sorrow that can only come from unimaginable tragedy. The necessary colleague and advocate for this sorrow is rage- A contempt the likes of which occupies the mind, the spirit, one’s entire life- a rage which replaces each and every cell with a disoriented sense of self. A collection of candles can do more than light a room: they can set it ablaze. And so we did.

To be white during times like these is, for me, a reminder of my own emotional disconnect from the lives of POCs. Rage, sure. Sorrow, yes. But it is a learned sorrow based on mutual personhood – not on mutual experience. I can try to relate to these experiences – I can listen to them but not experience them. I can try to understand – I can hear them out but never understand them. I can relate to the vision of the racially marginalized but only because of their immense efforts and outward cries. But despite seeing their vision, which must on a daily basis be hammered and hammered and hammered through the enamel of white supremacy – which has so thoroughly passed itself from our [white] ancestors to ourselves, & has engulfed the very surface of our brains – I do not see their day to day experiences. Not from their perspective anyway. But what I can see in our shared imagination is their hope for a future – the chance at a future. To be upset at racial issues when one is white is not a phenomenon with a single source or meaning, or legitimacy. Some white folks want to feel entitled to credit or they want to feel helpful & so they show up at rallies expressing rage. Outwardly. But who does this serve? In some instances it can be directed usually. But whites feeling offended after blacks are murdered must not be a weakening force for whites themselves. As we approached the scene I was deeply aware of my own rage and discomfort but struggling to know how to direct it. And of course the beautiful folks running the entire protest were more than gracious & offered some plain & simple direction for how everyone ought to direct their bodies. So as the sound of the crowd grew louder and the thousands of candles drew their light to the capitol I found myself fully aware that to add heat – hot, dripping wax – was a validating choice, but still a choice. A choice that I was privileged to have. So many folks don’t have the choice – death and extermination by police has been their lives since day one. But for me – & other white folks, however marginalized – the point is to be supportive of the movement while still realizing we aren’t oppressed. The point is not to feel threatened by white supremacy – though it is threatening. The point is to instead cash in on one’s own white privilege to CHALLENGE white supremacy, in whatever way is most supportive. The hot hot hot feeling in my chest was therefore being mediated by my little brain – listen, Ian, don’t act up. 


 

The most pathetic part about the ruling class – politicians, corporate & business authority, & the cops who protect them – is their fear. I cannot imagine the hell which must follow the life of oppressive elites – they walk the earth believing that they are good. That’s the thing with human beings – we all feel like the good guy. So think about how truly delusional it must be to put on that officer’s badge each day (or to pick up the lobbyist’s briefcase). They, like you & I, drink coffee and experience some conscious tumblings in their frontal lobes about the day. Each thought and belief of these monsters is just as down to earth and kind as our own – they want the best for their families. But they know not how very small and limited and white their communal families are. They have not the love or awareness of larger groups & therefore continue to draw lines in the sand. They do not know of their indirect injustices and legitimately think that they write laws, or keep the economy moving, or keep communities safe.

All they do is steal.

The cries against them are so viciously controlled and suppressed that the white elite seriously think of themselves as normal, happy, loving human beings. And at the day to day level these state players are happy. But in the mythological-theological sense these people are demons. They live off of the blood and tears and oppressions of millions. The lavish cloaks & suits they wear are knitted with threads of death, & the legacies they inherit are nothing but shame embodied. And yet they believe they do a service to the world by waking up to write laws and work in courtrooms. Can you imagine the dissonance? Can you imagine how it must feel to have tens of thousands of people – all of whom have much better shit to do – complaining at your doorstep?

The human brain has a remarkable capacity to reduce dissonance and it often comes at the expense of social engagement or positive emotions. It must be so pathetic to be a politician. Especially in Minnesota. It must also be so pathetic to be one of the petty thugs who protects them – a badge is surely more powerful than any drug, and the occasional affirmation or thanks that officers receive is enough to carry their ego generation through generation, and through untold shootings. It is so sad for them, aside the obvious fact that it is sadder for those of us in the working class. As I stood at the capitol amidst the many faces this was all I could think of. The capitol building is one of the ugliest things I have ever seen – yet, at this junction in our several-thousand-year-tenure on earth, most humans think of those buildings as remarkable. They harken back to the Greek days – and of course, state authority would be nothing without some cheap mockup of Greek architecture. The silly robes that a judge wears – which provide a real sense of security to the white majority – are just a Puritan minister’s robes. These ancient and blind forms of authority are the bread and butter to white people, who don’t even realize that the marble-clad building is a waste of time and waste of space. Theatre is a powerful thing and the lavish decoration of our state is nothing more than cheap theatre. What must it be like to still be in the audience? How must it feel to be trapped within the delusion of white supremacy? Even the words white supremacy are so jarring to the ear that folks who propagate it instantly shut down & enter a flurry of hallucinations, excuses, & legalspeak. It is a fascinating form of neurological disability – not an inherent one, but a learned one.

I watched the surveillance plane owned by the PD circle overhead over and over and over and I pitied whoever was flying it. I pitied whoever was responsible for attaching the stingray node to the bottom of that little plane and I pitied whoever analyzes the data, & whoever uses all of that stolen cell phone information to continue this police state. I pitied them because only a terrified and lost group of people would ever go to such lengths to surveil a group of loving people – a group of lit candles. How awful it must be to be a part of the State backbone – to live off of fear, saved only by a thin membrane of control – & to continue believing that you are a good person. I’m sure most demons know nothing of the hell they wield, nor of the ignorance they harbor – least of all, these demons have zero imagination that they can access or direct towards better things. Any criminal’ that you grab off the street (save those who harbor a lot of self-loathing) has good reasons for doing what they are doing. So it is easy to see why someone dolled up, socially accepted, & with pockets full of money and decent health insurance must legitimately believe they have good reasons for doing things. Unbelievable. They can’t handle the fear of equality – the illusion is easier. They instead must fly planes over us, they instead must send militarized police to control us, they instead must keep their friends close but their guns closer. What a hell it must be.


The speeches at the capitol were beyond powerful. The most striking moment for me was when Philando’s dear friend took the mic. He sobbed. He wailed. He bled each drop of love out of his heart & into the air, and the hot bright flame of his candle surely burned brighter than the sun. The smoky wails flew not only to the heavens but into us – and we burned with him. As soon as his speaking began countless eyes began to water, as if an actual smoke were agitating them. He sobbed and explained that Philando was like family – and that Philando had come over to his house, to use his own mother’s dinner plates to eat off of. They were family. As soon as Philando’s friend mentioned that his own mother’s dinner plates had housed many a meal for Philando I lost it. Food is love & to share it – to commune in it- is deeper than any other experience. We are each made of food, & the gift of togetherness-in-eating is what has built my very bones. Yours too. And Philando’s. Moments later the speaker broke down in screams, and in cries, and as I looked at the ground I knew God must be crying, because a single teardrop fell at my feet.

We listened to many more wails and cries – from many more friends (I have lost track of their names). And then we marched.


 

5 minutes is 300 seconds

http://consciousness.arizona.edu/

a pounding headache @ 330am

The brain can only function excellently…at its highest capacity and energy, when it is completely secure…when it is not believing, or holding onto some illusions, some concepts/beliefs/fate…some fantastic ideas. Or- the ideas of Marx, and Lenin, [krishnamurti,] and so on. Or- our own democratic ideas and holding onto them. 

baby consciousness…we meet again

Photo on 5-12-17 at 9.09 PM #4.jpg

this kid is too darned adorable. I’m currently with him at his momma & poppa’s – they’re out on a date. and lucky them, because both of them are pretty swell folks. as is their little boy here – his facial expressions are so remarkably nuanced. sitting with him & constantly smiling at him, trying to make him smile back – i am instantly reminded that He Sees Through Me, and wont be irrationally tickled into a happy state. immense and subtle is his learning – amazing to watch him move, grasp, re-grasp, squeak, re-grasp, drop……like a drop of ink falling into the water. the ink (baby) & its environment (water) are not separate, but are distinct…..& adjust, mingle, altering one another reciprocally. even most contemporary language in the world of developmental psychology and developmental neuroscience is suggestive of this idea that babies are ‘learning the skills needed to be an adult,’ as if the passivity of embodiment suddenly vanishes at old age. in my experience both the adult (or the advanced adult/senior/cute old prune) and the child follow this same ink-water relationship. perhaps the adult-ink has settled more equally into the water, and is more familiar with the turnings of the water, and vice versa. but both follow the same rules, & neither is entitled to magic intentionality.

as a helpful reminder (or perhaps the very prompt) for these lines of thinking are some of the books that mom & dad have sitting around here. The Soul of an Octopus is the clear Ian-choice:

“Popular naturalist Sy Montgomery explores the emotional and physical world of the octopus, the remarkable connections it makes with people, and the vibrant community that arises around this complex, intelligent, and spirited creature. Practicing true immersion journalism, from New England aquarium tanks to the reefs of French Polynesia and the Gulf of Mexico, Montgomery befriends individual octopuses with strikingly different personalities – gentle Athena, assertive Octavia, curious Kali, and joyful Karma – who show their cleverness in myriad ways: escaping enclosures, creative trickery to get food, and jetting water to bounce balls. Montgomery also chronicles scientists’ growing appreciation of the octopus’s problem-solving as she tells a love story. By turns funny, entertaining, touching, and profound, The Soul of an Octopus reveals what octopuses can teach us about the meeting of two very different minds.”

but resting just nearby is another consciousness-themed text. Inner Engineering: A Yogi’s Guide to Joy. I would type the description of that one but it’s too long, and this baby over here is murmuring/moving in his sleep.

Be back soon