Hectic labs

My body still aches all over from yesterday's activity. Something always goes wrong whenever I show up at the laboratory and I end up yelling and running all over the place for the whole day to gain some momentum of sanity in that place. I guess forging plasma into a kind of malleable medium like regular water or even a metal is still far from the capacity of the human race.

I enjoyed my luxury of being able to wake up late in the morning. 9:00 Am to be exact. I usually leave my earphone on while I sleep so th bustle of activity right outside my window (which hovers over a garden) doesn't really disturb me, as long as the world keeps it within reasonable limits. The sky is spotless in beautiful cerulean blue. In certain parts of the world it really will be difficult to tell which is the color of the ocean and which is color of the sky, though my native Hudson river and the Atlantic ocean (especially around the city) are running in muddy gray and green as usual. The air yesterday was so fresh and delicious, I wonder if today will be the same? Maybe I can take a little walk in the park during the day. The clear sunlight shining through my window exacerbates my anticipation.

Before I need to go I think I should vacuum the floor. I can see dusts twinkling in the sunlight in corners of my room.

What Do You Have To Say? - Some New Creative Skills

I've been thinking about learning to play violin. The solitary tune is rich enough to be chaotic, yet somehow always retains its elegant form in hands of a skilled player. Of course, attaining some degree of proficiency in playing such an intsrument would be a complex, long-term goal. But of course, it's fully worth it. I can't get the tunes of the instrument out of my head, I almost feel as if my mind is resonating with the instrument as the string screams forth beautiful melodies.


I've come to notice that the problem people have with learning a new intsrument, or learning new anything, seem to be not the difficulty of the endeavor itself but the fact that they would have to apply themselves to the humiliation of ignorance. Great teachers constantly remind their students what a worthy thing they are learning and striving forward to. Bad pedagogy, on the other hand, consists of reminding his or her students how ignorant and philistine they are in order to force them to proceed. But the fact of life is, while education of any kind is worthy and essential, there is nothing preventing them from simply leaving the scene. Maybe this lesson from instrument lessons can be applied to the frequently criticized eductaion systems of the United States.

Late morning

The thing I least like about morning is the people. The world itself feels at most times refreshed, but the general people I meet tend to be worst bunch of the day. I wonder if its the weariness from the past day?

Today is something of a semi-off day. Maybe I will be visiting the Metropolitan museum again.

About at the day's end.

Today was a nasty one, if I say so myself. A lot of things that otherwise would have gone right in normal conditions went wrong, and lot of things ended up being more confusing than they originally ought to be. I guess this is what people call an unlucky day.

The question of fluctuation of certain quality of life called fortune just sounds too real to ignore in days like this. It almost feels as if my own experience had proved that there indeed is something called unlucky-day, one unlikely events happening after another until the weight of the day is too heavy to bear with a calm demeanor. The most terrible thing about such days is that the events of such a day leave a bad after taste, something I have to keep in mind and continue doing for a long time after to come. The unlucky day is also a day that unexpected and inescapable responsibility are given birth to follow me.

Other than the human events, the day had been lovely. The sky was spotless without being destitute, the weather was the fine balance between pleasant warmth and pleasant coolness, and it generally felt as if the sky would ring clear should I have touched it. In day s like this I remember how I wanted to fly, long time ago, among the stars and the spaces, brushing my fingers against the highest stratosphere at the edge of the space and the Earth.

Dusk

I just had the sweetest moment of sleep I ever had in a long time. Perhaps I'm still not entirely free of the yesterday's somewhat rigorous workout. I closed my eyes while watching the ends of the skies taking on a violet hue, and the lines of the clouds assuming the shape of dreams and fantasies. Now I open my eyes to find that the world is in twilight, not entirely night but certainly not daylight.

The trees are now blackish lines rooting into the sky, and the whole world is surrounded in a very cool color of indigo blue. I can see little spots of orange light coming on among the trees and the blue. One last tail coat of the cloud is caught in the horizons, with fading silvery tone highlighting the darkening line.

How the world changes as the light changes never ceases to amaze me, and although I'm no longer a little child I once was, I find myself losing into the fascination of the fantastic interplay of colors and shapes, staring into the world long after the metamorphosis have taken place. I can safely say that even some of the greatest human work of art remains pedestrian in depth and scope to what the world itself has to offer, although the argument that the human arts have themselves become part of this metamorphic world is certainly valid.

I can only hope that someday I'd be able to capture this strange feelings and things that are there yet remains quite unseen with writing or some other medium, as a masterful crystal-work of things I cannot fully describe. Maybe in the future, it won't even have to be a writing. Maybe it will be an artificial life of most beautiful nature, changing and observing the world alongside her creator.   

Relaxation

I just wrote a medium length post in wordpress about the nature and origin of creativity. While I was writing, I could hear the distant bells of a church beyond the elegant tunes of Grey Wolf saturating my room. Such is the picture perfect vision of relaxation. Undisturbed thoughts carried on by a beautiful strand of music, with the world never far away to meld into the moment in time.

Being able to concentrate so hard is such a refreshing and cleansing experience, and I feel like I've woken from a long meditation at a temple. Only now I'm beginning to perceive the bustle of the people and traffic somewhere outside my window... Even the air has taken on a perfect bluish tint, with the linings of cloud drawing on pattern after another at the edge of trees. Such is the benefit of living on a hill I guess.

Writing of these relatively mundane things and the odd angles of beauty in such things brings much joy to my heart. No restrictions and no formats, unlike the so many reports and calculations I have to perform when working. While the search for beauty demands appropriate effort, moments like this is like a breath of fresh air, and serves to awaken and focus my mind and heart. Now I feel like I can work again.

Evening

I've come back home again, earlier than I expected. The house is as quiet as always, and there is a draft of cool air surrounding the living room. Little strands of piano seeps through the crack on the door to the study. Philip Glass' metamorphosis again. I never get tired of it.

The orange-like hue surrounds the darker places by the window, the sound of piano seem to drift around the light, and I get a momentary sensation that the light is wandering around the room like the air. In the distance I can hear the jumbles and bustles of cars and people moving about, but no talking.

Maybe I'll eat an orange tonight.

Silence

The morning had been quite as always. I love the sound of my keboard being tabbed away in the silent sunlit room of the morning. It has such a catharsistic effect on me, almost seem to was away the remnants of the night and carryover junks of yesterday.

I can see smokes coming through the chimney stacks outside the window. Outside must be quite cold, and windy.



How would I be able to write the world using words and phrases? By sharp eye and clear mind, I'd presume. I'd need to grasp the components that truly makes a human moment a moment significant in time, like an expert photographer realizing the subtle changes in angle and light to realize what a beautiful moment needs.

Impression

I keep on waking up late these days. I wonder if something is wrong with me?

The sunlight is so lucid today, I feel as if I can almost pluck the rays out of the air and drink them. Light is a peculiar and amusing medium. I especially like it when they leave their footprints in otherwise untraceable terrains of liquid and air. The light is filtering through the last bottle of whiskey I have in front of me, and the golden hew is spreading throughout the whitewashed walls and wooden floors. I feel as if the room is being filled with most sweet aroma...

Will it be possible to capture the still life of the essences of the world through writing? Will it be possible to have an endless gallery of pictures, not of pictures but of words and phrases? An art is in part a study of the relationship between the medium and the space. Perhaps that is why we are not seeing a whole galleries of still-life and abstract writings.

How would I be able to 'write' something as potent and profound as Mark Rothko's art in writing? How would I be able to capture that rich duplicitous simplicity? How can I go beyond merely writing about things of the world to writing the world itself?

Metamorphosis

I've come to an interesting thought.

A system with directionality that strives to maintain itself while going through endless stages of metamorphosis is living and life-like.
Simpler, non-living systems either goes through metamorphosis even at devastatingly destructive cost, or doesn't go through any sort of notable metamorphosis at all. Perhaps these differences can be attributed to the differences between chaotic, complex, and ordered systems in purely physical terms.

The source of the thought? Other than my endless curiosity about the origin of life-like systems and their processes, I'd say the direct inspiration came from Philip Glass' Metamorphosis, the solemn and elegant notes combining to form an aural equivalent of a light's reflection of a giant lens.
 

Morning

I woke up a little late today.

Maybe it was the exercise at 9 in the evening yesterday.

Today's sunlight is nowhere near as clear and mystifying as yesterday. Soon I will have to go out and subject myself to all the comings and goings of everyday emotion and motion. And later on all the things will wash away like nothing ever happened.

But this is the metamorphic world. I won't come out unchanged.

Night line

The moon is glowing in strange color tonight. I don't now how I should describe it precisely. An ivory color of an old oil painting perhaps? The ringing rainfall of the piano leaves are constantly echoing in my ears, a most delicate conundrum at this time of the day.

The changing aspects and constant beauty of the moon provides me with much needed reprieve after a whole day of merry-making and talking constantly about nothing. My heart calms in the silence and the delicious solitude playing the tune. Indeed, I do believe that people go through a metamorphosis at every moment in their lives, and strive toward mastering that change, like a masterful artist striving to achieve the perfect figure of her medium. Such outlook might as well be what being a human being is all about.

What Do You Have To Say? - Inspiring

The origin of creativity at this stage seem to be the simple act of doing things. I might as well say that living is the origin of all creativity, though how we are living in what kind of world might give rise to some kind of difference in practice. No matter how tedious, simple act of doing things without preset rules will have a creative effect on long run, just as I sit and jot down nothings and ramblings whenever I feel that I am in crisis of creative nature. Such exercise might last for hours, or for those of titanic will, days, after which the random thoughts begin to coerce into a strange dichotomy of directionality, as if the words were coming alive and speaking to me in unwritten tongues. 

Music

Some of the more interesting music I hear these days are in the realms of classics. Aside from the commonly heard masterpieces like the Schubert's the Death and the Maiden, (I love the iterations of the Alban Berg string quartet), some of the more repetitious modern iterations have a peculiar charm of their own, about how they use the simplest of tunes and simplest of compositions yet creates a rich gradient of emotions and worlds drawn in the air.

I do not claim any kind of profound understanding of the medium of music, but I think I should hold such achievements in very high regard. It's like some of the paintings of Mark Rothko I love so much. A simplest visual art with simplest composition, yet deceptively complex and rich in profound philosophy and innuendo. They are like little windows, that might not mean much by themselves yet the things on the other side... There are whole worlds of thoughts and emotions, the indescribable feelings of aesthetic catharsis.

Line of light

Hello.

It's morning again.

My eyes opened to the white wall, I saw two columns of clean orange light standing there. I turned my face to the window and saw the sun reaching between the blinds. The notes of a piano fell upon the rays of light, rolling down into my ears and echoing into my heart. The light is a fickle lady, doesn't want me staring at her but oh so beautiful nonetheless.

The sky is still embedded in the gradient of blue-gold. It feels as if I can scratch its surface and play a tune on the echoes.

The world is still in metamorphosis. To what end, I don't now yet.

I stretched to shake off the stillborn labors of yesterday. I should go brush my teeth now.

Night

Now is the time, for a silent retrospection, to make all the odds and ends of the day meet, in one moment of silent toast. Things I've said, things I've heard, and things I've seen, all the little pieces and dusts fall together into the air drawing a perfect figure. I will remember this. I will remember that unassuming line in the air for all the times to come.

It will become my memory, tucked away but always there.

I think it's about time to sleep now. Even the sky is losing its rich orange clouds and relapses into a violet dark. An airplane roars away somewhere far away. I'm fine with that. Good bye. Maybe I'll say hello in the morning.

Whiskey and etc.

I just had a shot of whiskey and etc, with a good book at my side, it feels as if the beauty of the letters and phrases are seeping into my heart just by sitting near them. The light of the lamp gives off a color of afternoon sunshine against the wooden table and paper. I can just fall in love with this moment.

I wonder if even a situation like this can be considered a metamorphosis? The world is the same, and I am the same as I was, more or less. Outside the window the night sky catches my eyes in its strange afterglow of the dusk, the clouds still retaining the orange-gray of some time ago. Maybe it will snow again tonight.

The little letters of the world breaks down and composes whole again, making the world I see around me. Whether I can explain with my eager attempt or not, the world around me and myself is in constant flux of endless metamorphosis, shifting in and out of things even as I sit here and type away the words falling into my head. Even as the world is calm and so beautiful around me, I can't seem to be able to see the end of the metamorphosis, or what everything is changing into. Like the breakfast of a blind, my hands can only reach to things I need for my sustenance.