...electrical telegraphy, the first SMS system...

Silly short-sighted humans, what with their innate inability to not remember things, but desire to lunge head first into forgetting many things, in fact, as many things as possible.  Add to this the recent, and it has been relatively recent, prevalence of the smartphone, of the computer in your pocket, of "always on", of social space - it takes trial to be apart from your electronica.  It will be a wonder if the brain will re-adjust, for not too long ago, it was the minutiae of technology that we had to retain and use.

Well kids, there used to be a system that is well over 180 years old and was definitively the precursor to all that is today - that of electrical telegraphy.

It was, in the late 1840s, an electrical communications network that spanned tens of thousands of miles across the United States and Europe.  It brought communication instantly over major distances, where only physical carrier could have brought it before.  Because the communication was cost-intensive, folks had to come up with ingenious grammatical and spelling devices to get the benefit of saving a few dollars.  It was, in no short order, the first electrical proof of SMS communication.  (Where even some commentators assert that it was the first internet.)

With the closure of the last telegraph system in India (http://www.thehindu.com/news/cities/bangalore/telegram-dead-start-mourning/article4813592.ece), it is the end of a an almost 200-year old technology; and it was smartphone SMS that eventually killed it.  But, telegraphy built the foundation for all of modern cell, line, networked, switching systems.  Now, the seemingly simple set-up of electrical wire, electromagnets and some mechanical instrumentation will reside in museums, where the era of scientific nostalgia has still yet to happen (but abounds for cultural nostalgia).

We could have lugged this around, right?

But, if not for the restrictions of technology, we wouldn't do what humans do best: improvise with what we are given.  Telegraphy set the foundation for L337 or SMS phrases, as witnessed by this Western Union "92 Code" list, designed to provide a two-digit numeral to the most common telegraphy phrases: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/92_Code.  In particular, do these sound familiar?

- "88" - love and kisses
- "55" - important
- "13" - I understand

Or even "Wood's Telegraphic Codes" (1864):

- "1" - wait a minute
- "7" - don't know
- "N." - no, not
- "Q." - question

In the interest of speed and cost, telegraph operators found ways to be efficient: imagine that Morse Code was not originally designed to be anything other than writing shorthand, or receiving a visual display of the code.  Operators became so adept at interpreting the stream, they could listen by ear and understand the message.  [It has always frustrated me that I have never been able to do this - even after taking some serious time as a child toward the endeavor.  I would, however, easily adopt the phonetic alphabet in the Army.]

Consider some of the ingenious text msg short hand you could think of today, many coming from the days of ye olde pager:

- "10Q" - thank you

- "182" - I hate you

- "143" - I love you

- "^5" - high five

- "^URS" - up yours

Now that's just 2QT.

...knocking around baseballs at Brookhurst in early spring...

The weather last Wednesday took me back.  The mix of heat and humidity, the low creep of dark clouds on the horizon, never to coalescing into anything substantial.  There were many similar days, of course, but, as I crossed over the La Palma bridge (over the 5 freeway), intersections in my mind were made.

Mom had signed me up for the Pinto League a few weeks prior to that day at Brookhurst Junior High.  And I, only playing pick-up games here and there, was thrust into the world of formalized game play.

[I begged both my parents that I wanted to play tackle football, but there were injuries from the prior summer season, and they shied from it.  I almost had my dad.  But, as he was getting serious, he took the white Monte Carlo up to a park on Orangethorpe (no longer there), and he was, as burly as he was, concerned, "I didn't think they were hitting that hard."  He made me think about with that statement - but I knew I could juke with the best of them.  I was light and fast.  My dad eyed me up and down with those light blue eyes, pulled the Carlton out of his mouth and blew out, "You're too little, guy."  It would be Anaheim Pony League for me.  The deal was sealed with an A&W float from one of the few in Anaheim, that was just across the street from the park.]

Mom dropped me off at try-outs a few weeks later.  My mom had no clue, as I wouldn't expect her to have one, on what to bone up on before showing up in my cords and a shirt I wore way too often.  There were some kids showing up that day, not a ton, but a few, that even had on glistening uniforms.  Great.  I settled in with the other obvious poor kids, they had a touch of surliness, and, like me, had the worn out shoes.  It was a warm day, and we were using the fields between Brookhurst ("Moon") Park and Mel Gauer Elementary.

I never had a glove before: why would I?  I never wore cleats.  I had never even seen a baseball uniform unless it was on a KTLA weekday game of the Angels.  But, here the coaches were, with clipboards.  I could only imagine where they put me on the scale for pitching (non-existent), throwing (weak), running (strong), catching (meh), hitting (needs work - let's put a few exclamation marks here for good measure).  The bright spot was that the ice cream stand was opened up and I, as always, knew where this was going to go.  My mom had left, so I just hung around.  I took in that there were a few girls.  I took in that there were already cliques happening.  Fun.

The coaches gave us a laundry list of items to go get.  Considering the time, I'm sure it broke the bank.  I got the glove, the oil - and went on to just oil that puppy up.  I'd take a few weeks throwing my only ball into the netting over and over again - making the crease just right.

In due time, I was assigned to the Dodgers.  It didn't take long to get gussied up for the team picture.  We hadn't played a game yet.  Looking around the team, it was obvious: we were the remainders.  The good news was, I could work with that.  Plus, there were two cute girls, including the prettiest girl in the grade at Mel Gauer - Cherie.  Mon Cherie.  My team picture had me with long hair and bright eyes - ready to take on the season.

The coaches took an interest in me for hitting.  The running, catching and hustling were all there.  So they assigned me to Center/Left, which was a smart thing to do in the long run.  In the short run, they had to whip a kid afflicted with fear at a ball being slung inches from his face.  But the older coach, a crotchety guy, had the idea that it would take an afternoon to do this.  Boy, would I disappoint.

So, on a cool, early spring day, with long hanging clouds ominously overhead, the two coaches took what seemed like four to six hours of non-stop pitching at me.  This was done directly behind the park-side of the Brookhurst Junior High gym.  The tennis courts were in front of us, and we had our batter's catch pointed in that direction.  Oy, the yelling.  Oy, the screaming.

"Keep your eyes on the ball!"
"Stop closing your eyes when you swing!"
"Wait for it!"
"If it's bad, let it go.  Don't just swing!"

Does he know, this isn't going to happen?  It took me two hours of non-stop swinging to realize that I was being detained; this wasn't going to end.  In essence, I smelled what the coach was cooking.  Ok.  I took in the last couple of hours worth of advice and put it all together.  The swinging still happened.  But, I kept the eyes open.  I kept my form.  I choked up on the bat.  I kept the bat off the shoulder.  I understood what my Angels did when they had their left foot lightly on the soil and they circled the bat slightly.

I learned to do all of this only because I hated the coach at that second.  That was one of those 'adult' moments.  Sometimes things don't change until you HATE something.  A'ight.  The clouds rolled in.  There was coolness and a bit of drizzle.  The rest of the field, which was full of kids before, had emptied out.  It was me, the two coaches, and one of my fellow players that was there to catch.  He wasn't getting any practice in at all.

I stared down the coach; the crazed look in his eyes was all I could see.  But, I stared at the ball, felt it come to me, knew exactly where in my box it was going to go through.  Crack!  That ball flew.  No finesse to the hit, mind you, but a solid, center drive that was easily caught.  Another lesson learned.  You learn, only from playing, the sound of a good hit from a bad one.

The coaches were ecstatic.  But they didn't let me off of the hook.  "Three more times, kid."

Crack!  Miss.  Miss.  Crack!  Miss. Miss. Miss. Crack!  "Time to go home.  You getting this?"  I had that drag going on - the drag you get from practicing all day.  "Yeah."  I walked away but turned again just to see the coaches pick up the equipment, the dark clouds lightening in the later afternoon beyond them.  I get it.

...a walk through of the Getty Center this past Saturday...

Upon entering the Center.

One would have to think that, when Richard Meier was designing the Getty, that a fellow colleague asked 'how much travertine do you think you need, Dick?'  Richard would plainly answer, "Let's go for lots.  Yes.  Lots and lots."  They would quarry about 108,000 square meters of the stone from the same Tivoli quarry that was used for the Roman Colosseum and the Trevi Fountain.  It reflects light.  On hot days, it reflects heat...and light...into your face.

Kidding aside, Richard Meier, the lead architect of the Center, produced a structure that did not inhibit light, but captured it and uses it to great effect.  Never is the light cloying (although I would be interested how the structure handles interior light at night).  The light moves along walls, floors and into the exhibits with gentleness.

'Travertine' -  it rhymes with gabardine.

The spaces are open, freeing.  Considering the milieu just outside and along nearby Santa Monica and Venice Beach - the wide open spaces across the 600 acres don't blend in with the landscape, as one may expect from other structures of the arts and crafts movement, but the lines caress the landscape of the hill that it is on.  The building that sits atop it is genuine in its effect to open up the vista to the south, east and west.  In a way, you forget the building many times: you cannot escape the lines of it, but the more utilitarian and pedestrian functions of it melt away once you reach the thick railings, or sit at one of the many fountains.

The center garden's and these recognizable wire structures.

Main fountain.

Having been to Rome, Florence and Venice, the fountains seem to be an echo of features one would normally see in traditional spaces.  Natural stone as the subject of the water feature, with mild fountains moving the water around.  Travertine lines most of the ancillary fountains, with natural river stone the foundation for the larger ones.

Moving on to the interiors, briefly spoken of here, we see the outcome of his endeavors, into the presentation of the exhibits themselves.

Opening to European Paintings exhibits.  One of Van Gogh's "Irises" in the background.

Manet's "Madame Brunet".

While in the European collection, two portraits meet you at an angle, either on both sides of a walkway.  The first, "Portrait of Madame Brunet" by Eduoard Manet, offers an arresting use of contrasts - the pale face of its titular subject in opposition of the dark eyes and dark wont of the young woman.  The spot for it, in this chamber meets the natural light from above in a pleasing effect.

With much of art, it is thrilling to be in the presence of a work that typifies more of Manet's familiar pieces like the portraits of "Morisot" or "Olympia".  Like "Brunet", there is an obvious lack of emotion, where we don't require anything but the challenging beauty of the subjects in their non-expressive state.  And, at the Orsay in Paris, Manet's most provocative work, "The Luncheon on the Grass", really echoes the eventuality of aloof hipsters overly engaged in a conversation of how their iPhone playlist should progress between Neon Trees and Imagine Dragons.

 Then, diagonal to it, is the piece I fell in love with.  Attributed mostly to not having been exposed to it before, not expecting to see it and then arrested by the sheer beauty of the piece.

Millet's "Feuardent".

Jean-Francois Millet's "Louise_Antoinette Feuardent" is a challenge, like most paintings, in that a photograph cannot capture the repose of the subject's face.  It is done in such subtle tones, with such a simple glance, it is, as said, arresting to the viewer.  Millet painted this of his friend's wife; by the dress of the young lady displaying her wedding ring and her very sturdy look, you feel as if you are meeting, face-to-face, this subdued woman from 172 years before.

Millet used a limited pallet, to great effect - the finery of the woman's lace, where the realism ends, is the only component that seems to challenge your senses.

Blueprint effect to ceiling of main entry building.

Normal photo of the same.

...for the loss of warrior friends...

"Mighty Gilgamesh came on and Enkidu met him at the gate.  He put out his foot and prevented Gilgamesh from entering the house, so they grappled, holding each other like bulls.  They broke the doorposts and the wall shook, they snorted like bulls locked together.  They shattered the doorposts and the walls shook.  Gilgamesh bent his knee with his foot planted on the ground and with a turn Enkidu was thrown.  Then immediately his fury died.  So Enkidu and Gilgamesh embraced and their friendship was sealed.
...
As Enkidu slept alone in his sickness, in bitterness of spirit he poured out his heart to his friend...and he lay stricken with sickness.  One whole day he lay on his bed and his suffering increased.  He said to Gilgamesh, 'Once I ran for you, for the water of life, and now I have nothing.'  [Gilgamesh] touched [Enkidu's] heart but it did not beat, nor did he lift his eyes again.  He dragged off his splendid robes and flung them down as though they were abominations:

'The river along whose banks we sued to walk,
Weeps for you,
All the people of Eridu
Weep for you Enkidu
What is this sleep which holds you now?
You are lost in the dark and cannot hear me.'
- The Epic of Gilgamesh

Benvolio. O Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio's dead!  That gallant spirit hath aspired the clouds, Which too untimely here did scorn the earth.

Romeo. This day's black fate on more days doth depend; This but begins the woe, others must end.

Benvolio. Here comes the furious Tybalt back again.

Romeo. Alive, in triumph! and Mercutio slain! Away to heaven, respective lenity, And fire-eyed fury be my conduct now! Now, Tybalt, take the villain back again, That late thou gavest me; for Mercutio's soul Is but a little way above our heads, Staying for thine to keep him company: Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him.

...Endymionis somnum dormire...

...to sleep the sleep of Endymion...

The goddess moon, Serene, loved Endymion, a mortal, with so much fervor, she asked for two favors of Zeus.  The first is that Endymion would not age, but stay with the blush of youth forever.  The second, so as to see Endymion controlled (as freedom is a pesky contrivance), the mortal would stay asleep until Serene would pass nightly by.  Then, from Keats:

Ah! see her hovering feet,
More bluely vein’d, more soft, more whitely sweet	625
Than those of sea-born Venus, when she rose
From out her cradle shell. The wind out-blows
Her scarf into a fluttering pavilion;
’Tis blue, and over-spangled with a million
Of little eyes, as though thou wert to shed,	630
Over the darkest, lushest blue-bell bed,
Handfuls of daisies.”—“Endymion, how strange!
Dream within dream!”—“She took an airy range,
And then, towards me, like a very maid,
Came blushing, waning, willing, and afraid,	635
And press’d me by the hand: Ah! ’twas too much;
Methought I fainted at the charmed touch,
Yet held my recollection, even as one
Who dives three fathoms where the waters run
Gurgling in beds of coral: for anon,	640
I felt upmounted in that region
Where falling stars dart their artillery forth,
And eagles struggle with the buffeting north
That balances the heavy meteor-stone;—
Felt too, I was not fearful, nor alone,	645
But lapp’d and lull’d along the dangerous sky.

Then, from Hughes:

To fling my arms wide In some place of the sun, To whirl and to dance Till the white day is done. Then rest at cool evening Beneath a tall tree While night comes on gently,     Dark like me— That is my dream! To fling my arms wide In the face of the sun, Dance!  Whirl!  Whirl! Till the quick day is done. Rest at pale evening . . . A tall, slim tree . . . Night coming tenderly     Black like me.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night Take these broken wings and learn to fly All your life You were only waiting for this moment to arise Blackbird singing in the dead of night Take these sunken eyes and learn to see All your life You were only waiting for this moment to be free Blackbird fly, blackbird fly Into the light of the dark black night Blackbird fly, blackbird fly Into the light of the dark black night Blackbird singing in the dead of night Take these broken wings and learn to fly All your life You were only waiting for this moment to arise You were only waiting for this moment to arise You were only waiting for this moment to arise

....

...and, where you are this night, I am simple envy, not

of the cool summer's night's air, or of the smiles heaped upon you by those 

pretty boys more thrilling, more urbane and terribly interesting

as they mutter under their breath about themselves

and always the terrible I I I

I miss the soft neon reds that cross your cheek

The glances of sharp lights on crystal and diamonds

Alight upon your lips

And the poems found in the contrasts

Of sundown

Never think that it is about 'I'

for it is what I, honest, abhor

it is the transposition, of 'you', is enough

to suffice...

...Washizu and Macbeth: A Throne of Blood...

MACBETH: "Thou losest labour: As easy mayst thou the intrenchant air With thy keen sword impress as make me bleed: Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests; I bear a charmed life, which must not yield, To one of woman born.

MACDUFF: Despair thy charm; And let the angel whom thou still hast served Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother's womb Untimely ripp'd.

MACBETH: "...And thou opposed, being of no woman born, Yet I will try the last....Lay on, Macduff, And damn'd be him that first cries, 'Hold, enough!'

"Revel in power, respect it little, and you will, your reward, find."  In another famous letter, by John Dalberg-Acton, which is misquoted, but go beyond the sound bite and you will find greater wisdom in it: "Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Great men are almost always bad men, even when they exercise influence and not authority, still more when you superadd the tendency or the certainty of corruption by authority. There is no worse heresy than that the office sanctifies the holder of it."

Here, in Macbeth's court, did Shakespeare craft a play as cautionary tale: if you gain power by insidious behaviors, they will, as natural as rain in spring, come back upon you.  In order to attain power, one must, of course, break those in opposition - it is cleanest and best.  With Macbeth, the body count would include: King Duncan, two guards who may be aware of the plot (or not, doesn't matter when you are a pawn), Banquo, and Macduff's wife and son (his rival).  The spree goes unchecked and would have remained thus, if Macduff had been born naturally, but was instead born cesarean.  Macduff is, by prophetic luck, able to take Macbeth's head and the kingdom.

The news abounds with such stories.  May justice prevail.  For it will, today or tomorrow.  And Macbeth's speech?  The troubling part of all his efforts and affronts, of all the lives that he had ruined, in the end, they signified nothing.  The act and demeanor of his demise was appropriate then.

Washizu, a transposition of Macbeth, in one of the best films of all time (Throne of Blood) finds that his men or only loyal up to their necessary surrender.  They learned from their master as to what to do next.

She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing. — Macbeth (Act 5, Scene 5, lines 17-28)

..up to dates, up dates, dates that indicate that they are 'up'...

"Display me Aeolus above
Reviewing the insurgent gales
Which tangle Ariadne’s hair
And swell with haste the perjured sails.
Morning stirs the feet and hands
(Nausicaa and Polypheme).
Gesture of orang-outang
Rises from the sheets in steam."
- T.S. Eliot, "Sweeney Erect"

WATTPAD: Bound and weakened by the onslaught of King Dusan and his vampiric brethren, Jay-Z has to figure out an escape.

CAFEPRESS: More designs of skulls - For I knew him Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest.  He hath borne me on a shirt, a dozen times.

CAFEPRESS: Fall - yeeeeeeee.

CAFEPRESS: Vegas on a Magnet.  That hasn't been done before.  But I still enjoy that particular shot.

TWITPIC: new shots abound from the last weekend's myriad outings.

...Allusions of Horatio Hornblower and James Kirk...

     "A screen had been hurriedly run across the after part of the frigate, and the table and chairs replaced.  The brigadier [of the Spanish ship] sipped with increasing and astonished appreciation at the glass of wine offered him.  Inevitably several minutes passed in desultory conversation - Spanish was the one language the three had in common - before the brigadier began to discuss business.
     'You have a beautiful ship here, milord,' he said.  'I regret much to find you in company with a pirate.'
     'You mean the Bride of Abydos, señor?'
     'Naturally, milord.'
     Hornblower saw a trap opening before him.
     'You call her a pirate, señor?'
     'What do you call her, milord?"
     'I am waiting to hear your opinion, señor.'  It was important not to commit himself.
     'Her actions call for explanation, milord.  She has captured and plundered a Dutch ship.  That can be interpreted as an act of piracy.  On the other hand it might be said she is operating under a so-called commission issued by the rebels in Venezuela.  In the one case Captain Van der Maesen will seize her as a pirate.  On the other, if she is a privateer, I will seize her as an enemy of my country.'
     'In neither case, señor  has a court of law determined her status.  In the meanwhile, gentlemen, she is in my possession.'
     Hats were in the ring now.  Hornblower met the eyes of the others with the least expression he could manage.  Of one thing he was certain, that whatever might be eventually decided regarding the Bride of Abydos neither the British government nor the British public would approve of his tamely allowing her to be taken out of his hands."
     - Admiral Hornblower in the West Indies, 1958, page 180

     There are few genres that play into the minds of young men better than those of sea-faring adventures.  They can be of heroes or scoundrels - either way, the milieu of the sea, of wood, rope and the bare essentials that pushed men and ships to the edges of the world.  A boy can start with adventures in a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure or Boxcar Children, on to Stevenson's engaging series, then move on to a Frank Yerby or C.S. Forester novel.
     With punctuated reading through Forester's novel last night, a passage which I came across (above) struck me with parallels to Star Trek and its captain.  Doing a quick Google search and sure enough, Gene Roddenberry, the creator of Trek, cites that the original pitch for the series was based upon Forester's hero.  [As Hornblower was an amalgam of historical heroes, Lord Horatio Nelson and Lord Cochrane.]  Trek, in effect, was 'Hornblower in the stars'.
     And, in many of these gun-ship novels, the high art of warfare, of honor, and the strategies and hard truths that were required of these men are those that Kirk must face some thousand years later aboard his ship.  A captain would put faith in his crew, put them at risk and drive them to the brinks of exertion to fulfill the mission.  The ship was the world: you literally would live or die by its success or failure.  If you look at the statistical survival of such ships, the latter was the most likely.

     This is why a capable commander was required, a Renaissance man of sorts.  He was surely schooled, but had to have a functionary knowledge of a ship and how all the men and their tasks interwove to make it run.  Navigation, thus astronomy, arithmetic, etc. was absolutely required.  A function of the times was that he would have definite working knowledge of all of the mechanical processes aboard the ship.  He relied upon a crew of his choosing.  The other men must be exemplary in their fields.  The medic, the smithy, the sails-master, the cook - they all were integral to a well-run operation.
     Apart from Hornblower in contrast, Star Trek's dependence on the first- and second-mates relationship with the captain plays a much larger role than the Forester novels.  Hornblower's command has an interchangeable crew of coxswains and mates - which was, as far as I can tell with my knowledge only derived from a breadth of fictional accounts, probably closer to the reality of that time.  I would find it difficult to believe that, even in the world of Trek, that first to third-mates in a crew would stay their entire career with a single captain.  After first blush, I think the reality is Spock would have left many missions prior to that - it would reflect the nature course of ship exploration or warfare.
     Friendships would remain and evolve, surely - but all of Kirk's crew would be radically different in three to five year increments.  It is necessary for a healthy interplay across Starfleet as it would be in the modern Navy.
     What is consistent with the novels based upon the 'golden age of ships', is that the ships of the line were known, spoken about, characteristics maintained in the mind as modern day sports enthusiasts would with their favored team.  Rear Admirals must have kept close count on the 'technologies' (I'm sure the word 'strengths' was used) between nations and any and all advantages provided a full rigged ship.  Captains of the sea and their ships were spoken by government officials and the people's that relied upon their efficacy for survival.  Forester's take (as well as Yerby, slightly less (to me) of Stevenson) sees this microcosm as essential to the "exceptionalism" of his titular hero.
     If you get deeper into the Trek novelizations, where there is more time to explore the parallels: Trek offers this concept, which would have been too much minutiae for television and film.  Instead, Roddenberry offers a much less realistic viewpoint to concentrate on the singular set of characters across time.  It assuredly has its place (and popularity) - although it would be much more spirited to see changes that would make Kirk develop much differently over time.  It doesn't necessarily make for entertaining television - but it would make for an interesting one (Doctor Who anyone?).