September 24, 2012-
I received a phone call this morning asking me to come in for an interview, but my fierce senses explained rather quickly that this was a polite request. I had been lying in bed resting at the time, which of course had fair reasons to prompt my hand to a rather slow reaction, so that I listened to a message two minutes later. My brows furrowed immediately when I heard the exuberant voice at the end which clearly expressed spices of clover, or something really strong to give your tea a good flavor. So strong was her joy at a simple request that could not have meant more than flicking a fly away if I ruined her mission somehow by misinterpreting what the expression could have been at any point, flicking away someone who could not fit her idea of purpose for the facility, that I shrugged. Shrugged away her manners, because I could not see how placing so little life in her voice that I sometimes do when I, in my honest skepticism, speak about such to someone with authority, and also because- I knew the woman at the other end was not really, no, she wasn’t planning to bring me in for a need, but to build up the vision she had for the YMCA’s swimming department. My eyes narrowed then, and I completely understood her cheerfulness and the critic in me was finally given the push which dissolved its annoying clattering. My mind quieted. She had a purpose that I would now scope out, and if this was simply a ‘polite request’ for a chat she did not need, then, shrugging again if I must, I’ll have cookies under my shoulder as it moves when I go in for that interview.
This reminds me very dearly of a story that I read this week that the Speculative Edge had prompted me to read, which I shall not say much of, save for that it had a strong focus on robotics. Because I do not have the calibre in this subject to rather easily depict various involved ideas as they swim around each other in a forest quite so very vast as that, it sometimes fosters a melee of paradoxes, mathematical triangles, and mistrusted-due-to-my-experience equations, that, as I drank a strong cup of tea to my eye’s tired pleasure, I sat there feeling a bit like the woman in my last post that knew nothing about the wide but colorful world which I’d grimaced at initially, until, eventually, another peacock from the forest came, and untangled my web. I sifted through the story until I found purpose, and mission, and all the colors of dark, and light shades mixed into the bright, shapely but exotic leaves in the environment began to make sense. This time, I hope you shall not laugh if I tell you that I found a peacock quite literally to take me to a place in that jungle that grew to something with beauty in my eyes.
Last night while I was reading about robotics in a Starbucks café, still yet lost in a mechanical branch of science that became a branch in my imaginary forest picture, I spotted another picture that my dear friend was creating on her computer screen for a graphic design class. It had a blue setting, very light in hue but across the expanse were inlaid dozens of squiggly lines, frilly semblances in lines and shapes that were very appealing, I thought. In front however was a large mathematical shape. It was either white or black at different times, depending on my friend’s mood, which seemed caught up in the problem of rational and that which seemed irrational behind it. After a while, she pulled on the ends of her hair and blurted out in frustration,
“It has to make sense too.” I bit my lip.
“Yes,” I finally agreed. “It should make sense. But I really like the interplay between the two themes.” She sighed.
“Thanks.” I leaned over her screen.
“Perhaps it’s those little lacy-like diamond looking things in the background.”
“Which ones?” I pointed them out to her. She seemed to really like them, for some reason, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why. They had no bearing or purpose in the scene. And then I figured it out. She didn’t want it to have a purpose.
Of course my friend was under the illusion that the very idea that she had adamantly leaned away from trying to give her picture a purpose for the better part of an hour, was utterly insane. She would have balked had I suggested it. And I do understand, truly, that she wanted her design to make sense to the general public. But the truth was that, in seeking out items from the program with a creative touch to slap onto a logic puzzle that served the base shape in the front, her instincts were crawling with the illogical, but oftentimes singularly beautiful, work of the most nonsensical poet. Like some of the scenes I remember from Leonardo DiCaprio’s recent films, such as the Aviator, the work was ingenuous, but ingenuity and reason do not always mix. Much of Shakespeare’s work is filled with fluff and nonsense, but sounds particularly beautiful.
For a few moments as I stared at my friend’s picture, I tried to shift through a puzzle of my own. What was it about the logical puzzle that didn’t fit with what now appeared to be Hawaiian ropes of flowers framing the shape? I’ve always wondered why the irrational and the rational did not mix in school, because obviously the world needs both. They never seem to portray their esteemed qualities when clashing. After all, mixed marriages don’t clash. Opposites usually attract in my experience. A mixed plate with good, wholesome foods of every variety is just what a person needs. And yet . . .
“I’ve got it, Lily! They can’t go together because you are not rationally inclined.” She stared at me like I was crazy.
“What?” I smiled.
“Don’t you see . . . ” I spoke gently, and with more understanding. “You don’t understand yourself the ties between the logic on that page and the- Honolulu hoops or whatever you call them. There’s no way that they can be put together if you don’t know the purpose.” And now I also understood why the author of the robotic story had chosen his purpose with such a specialized branch of study. He was serving a purpose that was rooted solely in the logical paradox which he had created. He knew that he didn’t understand the ties between other worlds, and thus did not want to venture out of the scientific realm. A smart move. The smartest author knows what he or she doesn’t understand, and the smartest reader . . . experiments with this knowledge. And suddenly my journey through the story was clarified, and I plunged through the story voraciously. Right now I am still wondering about all of the new shades and the shapes and the colors, noise, and revelations it enclosed. But I understand that my greatest and most honored job while I’m working here at this magazine is bravery. To not be afraid to experiment.
I’ll speak to you all next Monday.
Until then,
Enjoy the Speculative Edge’s gifts that it has to offer!
And be brave,
Brooke ~
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