Delayed Consciousness

So I've wondered if there could be a phenomenon which I'll call delayed consciousness. Like lag in a live chat, it couldn't be much of a delay or it would be easily measured.

But here's the picture-- imagine a brain as it processes the information received by the senses. Information comes in the ear. At lightning speed the brain processes the raw data into a conscious experience of hearing.

But what if there was a step in between raw data and experience? What if some brains, before creating the conscious experience of hearing, stored the information? In a fraction of a second's lag, you suddenly have a person who, in hindsight, thinks they knew what someone was going to say just before they said it. For by the time they experienced 'hearing' they already had the stored knowledge. Not as a memory, perhaps, but a sense of familiarity. Hmm.

Disclaimer:::: this is not based on any scientific fact or research, but speculation. I'd love to watch a documentary on the subject of sensory experience.

Blue chocolate

"Laura Ingalls lived in Olden Times," my brother once told me matter-of-factly. "What are Olden Times?" I asked. I learned that once upon a time there had not been electricity or cars. It was kind of like camping or something. They rode horses, they had outhouses. They were basically underprivileged, but they also wore really cool clothes. The girls, at least, wore enormous poofy dresses with ruffles, and these corsets that made their waists tiny, and their hair piled on top of their head. They wore bonnets and boots and gloves. The men wore tall hats and had beards or moustaches. They made up for the lack of electricity with lamps and candles, and that, of course, was cool too.

Ever find yourself reaching through layers of yourself for a forgotten sort of beauty? You know what it looks like, you know you could fake it, but you won't. It's been too long since I hugged the earth and smelled spring. And I know there are many coinciding realities of nature's beauty and deep truths, but the jumble of practical objects invades my vision.

I forgot the beauty of the home chord. You can do so much with the suspensions. Such fullness in music that is the color of slate, or a forest, a clear night sky. Music that captures just what you feel when you walk alone through a village at night, down to lapping black water with a hint of sunset left over on the far side; you sit on an empty park bench and wonder about God, feeling so alone and insignificant but loved; you long for answers, but you know right now His answer is to let you sit and contemplate the vast creation. And in your heart you are crying, a deep longing cry neither bitter or hurt, but the only response you have for the vast mysteries around.

It was a kind of "emo" that, as years went on, became confused with negative angst, fear & insecurity. I try not to promote that kind of emo anymore.

But tonight I'm emo. Sweetly emo. Like I-am-filled-with-joy-because-God-has-given-me-so-much-more-than-I-deserve and I-am-filled-with-sad-sweet-love-for-the-beauty-God-has-created and deep-in-my-soul-I-long-to-see-the-majesty-of-God. Enjoying being human, enjoying feeling, enjoying the inbuilt desire for beauty.

The other morning, after staying up unprudently as late as I usually stay up, or a perhaps just a little later, I had an especially epic waking up experience.

I maintain a 70-minute "snooze" bracket, during which I intensify the pleasure of sleeping by waking myself up every ten minutes to remind myself that I'm asleep. If you've never formed this habit you wouldn't understand.

Somewhere around 8:30 I decided I should go ahead and get up. (The hard deadline for getting up is 9*, but 8:30 is a far more comfortable time to get up.) Since I was up and it was 8:30, I decided I could certainly take the time to put in my contacts. I opened the contacts case, and I noticed my contacts were blue. I don't have blue contacts. I've tried them on before, and it would be fun to have a pair, but the fact is, I don't have them. So I knew they weren't real. But I was like "hey, as long as I seem to have them, I might as well put them in and see how they look." (Like, if I got a love letter from a secret admirer, and I realized no such secret admirer existed, I'd still want to read it if it were legible and the words didn't dribble off the page...).

*8:50 real time, I think. I try not to know precisely how far off my clock is.

But when I tried to put one of the contacts in, I realized it was way too big for my eyeball. I put more solution on it and washed it and tried again, but whenever I raised it to my eyeball it was too big to get in past my eyelids. I was like okay, these are some funky contact lenses. They weren't even just blue anymore, they were like entire eyeball-covering lenses that made the white part of your eye look really white. They also were like alien or weird eyes, like costume contacts.

Probably about then my alarm went off again and I verified I was still in bed and another ten minutes of my morning was gone. I think I got up and went to work, but I don't remember for sure because the alarm went off again and I was back in bed. Finally, toward 9 I fought off the blanket and assessed my state of sleeping-in. Apparently with all those snoozes I'd been sleepwalking and stuff, because I had my work clothes halfway pulled on over my pajamas and other various chaos. Then the door opened and two friends of mine came in the room. Apparently this had all been a prank. I sat up and said, "Well anyway, I need to get up and go to work."

They were like, Um, it's Saturday.

I fell back in bed with a sigh of relief. Duh, all that snoozing for nothing. That's right, come to think of it... the day before was friday. This was Saturday. No worries. Peace. Calm. Rest.

Beep.

Beep.

9:00.

"No, it's NOT Saturday," I said emphatically, and genuinely got up. Really.

2, 314, 12, 4, 85, 7, 28, and the value of a life.

Does anybody ever agonize over just how to shape a written character? Sometimes I'll perfect a letter and leave it alone. I've settled on a cursive F right now, don't remember where I picked up the shape...

(or what about this:

1ne

2wo

3hree

4our

5ive

6ix

7even

8ight

9ine)

I'm no mathematician, but I like some numbers. Sometimes I associate numbers with people, or with myself. I'll think, "So-and-so just *is* the number -- and I don't know why." Sometimes it has to do with the personalities of lower numbers. Because around the age of 3 or 4 I began learning those lower numbers, and associating them with images and people who bore those ages.I like the numbers that make up my birthdate. They are, well, good numbers. Now, the number 4 is not anywhere in my birthdate, but somehow I equate it with my name, Hannah. Maybe because on an upside-down calculator, 4 is what I would type for h's and n's. 484484. Maybe because I was about 4 when I learned the numbers. (My second-eldest sister is distinctly 8... though she's also a pretty good 14, 16. I remember her 14th birthday well. Meanwhile my oldest sister is more like 9, 11.)

I'm currently agonizing over how to achieve a "4" character that I like. Naturally, there's always the question of which general shape to start with: square or triangle. AKA, L with a slash, or the triangle "closed" type. I've done both. I don't remember which I learned first, because almost right away I realized there were two ways. Either way, when I would switch, it was because I felt the former was the dumb way to do it.

Sevens were pretty much an upside-down L, without the hook on the end. Then I saw my neighbor draw a 7 with a hook on the overhang. My world was shaken. Ever since then, I've considered that hook an extra bit of flair to include. Not to mention the horizontal slash that, somehow, clarifies a 7 from a 1.

But that 4..... man, it's a tough one. It's just as hard as an H. H, the first letter of my name, and I've always agonized over it. The height of the slash affects the personality of the H so much, right along with the angles of the verticles. Bored yet? I can think about this for hours. Not just this, of course, but along with whatever else is important at the time.

4, like H, can be very plain or very artistic in presentation. The one in this font is not bad. It's close, with a slightly bolder vertical than the other lines. But I look at it and think, "but it's supposed to be open." But if it were square, I'd say, "Square is ugly. It should be closed." Like I wrote recently on a message board, how a play on words can sometimes drive me nuts, "like a snappy clip *photo* that you that you open, close, open, close, but neither the state of open or closed are satisfying--there's spring tension either way--so you keep clicking it til someone punches you."

I just saw a mention of July 4. I guess I've always identified with that holiday because it's in the same month as my birthday.

The thing is, I've seen some elegant old handwriting, and "back then", people learned to form their characters *awesomely* (but not painstakingly...that's the beauty of it. Scritch, scratch, voila!). Who decided penmanship didn't matter anymore? It's not just about neatness or readabilitiy, it's about beauty. I've always written quickly and chaotically; sometimes I'll slow down and carefully form every letter depending on the impression I want to make, but generally I try to be honest: my handwriting reflects my mood, my attitude, my vulnerability, my honesty, and my lack of discipline. I'm not saying that writing nicely is pretentious. On the contrary, just like you clean house for guests, there are times to write carefully and neatly. There are times to write like bug tracks. My handwriting is something I continue to develop over time, just like language. My native language is still plastic, open not just to new vocabulary, but new complex sentence structures. In the meantime, I cheat a lot. If the point is to get it written down, I don't waste time holding to an unspoken standard.

But I imagine someday, having perfected my personal script *pfft!,* travelling back in time to a rigidly disciplined classroom. My ruler cracks down on a desk. "Look at that four! It looks as bored as a mummy at chamber concert! Show me some real appreciation for music." or, "Whatever you do, please make your eights look happy. Confident. See this? This is a wasp that has been stepped on. Please, no crushed Apocrita exoskeletons on your exam tomorrow."

Here's the deal with the 4. I want to perfect a 4 that is both open and closed. It's a triangle, but the two verticals don't quite touch. In fact, they have to respect each others' space, while dancing closely. None of this Almost-Cross-But-Not-Quite-Because-Teacher-Says-So. Nope. Scritch, scratch, voila. Leaning, but not resting. Resisting, but not tense. Did you know tiny hash marks had so much personality? Ok maybe they don't. I'm crazy and should go offline.

Nope I'm talking more about it. The L-shape of the 4...I think the trick is the illusion that it sticks up higher than it does, but it's really quite short L with a long horizontal. The tall right vertical shouldn't curl away, because it's the support of the pair and should not abhor the complicated, subjective L that is so hard to shape correctly. The vertical should have a slight curve to it--nonchalant but responsible. A 4 with a very tall vertical and little L looks nice but oh way too snobby for my personal handwriting. See last image in this post. :)

Interesting. I have just decided that the best 4's come when I aim for an honest, no-frills vertical. And I think that's what I've been looking for. Now I can lay the subject to rest. Good night. I mean after I load in samples and comment on each one.

At the end of the day, I like seeing the different ways people write, without judgment, but with observation. Here are some fours I experimented with as I wrote the above post, trying to find what I could do to repeat the effect I want.

pretty cool, but I like the L to cross the vertical.

a little stodgy. Well balanced, but a bit sad looking.

maybe a bit too snazzy, but optimistic at least... it's kinda like a swastika waiting to happen, but it would be a good, pre-nazi swastika of good luck.

Well balanced, actually; I do think the L is a bit high, but I do like it.

kicking back... kinda rickety

the angle of the horizontal slash is anxious

cozy in a sans-serif way

here's style, but the L is too low

the cautious curve of the verticle, hm. Counter intuitive. Not stable.

Nice classic triangle style. Really, I've got nothing critical to say to this, even if everyone else in the world went for the square kind.

Too studiously "not-quite-touching"

What? what's this? Ah, it's a 4 that says, "hang this all, you know what I am, stop blurring the idea of absolute truth, at the end of the day a 4 is a 4; not a 0, 1, 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9! You know you love me." And I say "You're right. My judgment of appearances has nothing to do with my appreciation of your being, and I like your confidence."

Here's flair, but the personality but the verticals have opposite personalities.

This one is trying to be many things besides a 4. Maybe it's a 4 in A's clothing or vice versa.

Hmm. This 4 is narcissistic, far more intent on looks than integrity.

This one has wonderful intentions, but is not comfortable with itself.

This 4 is nice but does not have particular the harmony I seek.

This 4 is afraid of progress.

Good, I think this is one where I aimed for a straight vertical, resulting in a natural slight curve. The L is a bit too jaunty for my goal, but otherwise, would earn an A in my fabled penmanship class.

This is the "snobby" one.

The thing is, they are all 4... they are all fully, functionally 4. It's easy to point out their faults as related to some invisible aesthetic, but the fact is, if someone tortured me with nothing but white walls, pink noise, and snowstorm television, how deeply beautiful I would find a few definitive marks with meaning. Meaning. Visual aesthetics are only possible when applied to objects that already fall into some kind of order of deeper significance. So it's kind of funny to think we place so much importance on appearances, when our existence, the spark of life itself, is the most precious thing we have, enabling us to waste time if we choose, wondering about the meaning of life. Or how to draw a 4.

A couple days I posted this article in a hodgepodge post, but after thinking about it more, I wanted to separate it from that post, with no particular flair:


http://www.christianitytoday.com/ct/2009/august/16.22.html


I don't think his point is that people should rush to get married. He's not commanding anybody to run and find someone to marry--that behavior is probably where early marriage goes wrong. I do think he's suggesting that people don't gain something by waiting for the sake of waiting.

I don't have my own paper to write on the subject. I just thought his was an agreeable assessment of what's going on. Observing doesn't change anything. But it can be somewhat validating.

Thundershower

The downpour.

The pause.

The rumble.

Unpause.

So, I am pleased to report a lovely raining sound coming in my skylight. In fact, I think I need to go record it. There. 5 minutes of good rain, and now I'm listening to see if I'll be able to hear the spring peepers in the background that began shouting their first peeps of the year! This is a long overdue fulfillment of a promise I made to a friend who said he'd like to have a recording of rain.

Here's something I've been wanting to write about:

"Lord, help me

be

the one You're making me...

Lord, help me

see

the one You're making me---one You're making me...."--Downhere

Downhere's self-titled album has been my favorite in the car lately, resounding the themes of my heart, as not long ago, So Much For Substitutes did.

Lord... help me be the one You're making me... I have never felt more earnest in my quest, though at times I more adamantly pursued more "obviously" mission-oriented things. What I am pursuing now is to work hard at what I do, with a mission mindset. Surrendering not just the direction of my life, but little daily things that I feel are nasty little parts of me, but I now know the Holy Spirit can work on, apart from my abilities! Outbursts of frustration, even when they're just in my head. Fears. The self hatred that knocks at the door when I remember something I said imperfectly. Sometimes the fist of my own self is holding onto fear or anger-- and that too, I surrender. In surrender the heart relaxes and says, Wow, You really mean this? You really mean you died to take this all away? You really forgive me? I really don't need to clench my shoulders in defiance? for there's nothing better than Your healing hand--I don't have to understand what You're doing, because I can be certain it's good.... I'd say that's worth it! Peace of heart. My Father, as I walk, is watching and guiding me. He gave me senses, but he also knows their limits. So I'll use my senses... and trust Him.

"Curious, the child tugs the fingers of the bigger--he wants to see the face that is his own; he's not alone.

Lord, help me

be

the one you're making me."--Downhere

----

Another realization...... scribbled down at work the other day,

"No shame following someone's lead

if you feel you'd be happy to do it if you thought of it yourself."

A.K.A. Don't cripple yourself by insisted on 100% originality. There's no such thing. And doing something because it makes sense is not the same as blindly imitating. Following is not bad. It's what you follow.

Vacation

That's what I feel today is. One single day off work. I didn't sleep in much, but scrambled around packing for a weekend trip I'm about to take. I had a deadline to make--a teeth cleaning appointment. Teeth cleaning doesn't bother me. They don't feel any different now, which probably means I've been keeping them pretty clean.

I'm already 45 minutes into the total 4 hour trip of today, but I don't need to get to my destination til 5 or 6. So I'm simply relaxing at a coffee shop. Really relaxing. It feels like so long since I sank blissfully into the soothing company of strangers. The babble of voices that are in no way directed at me. A gentleman sits on the other side of this side table working a crossword, and we feel no need to explain our existences to each other.

On the high ceiling--corrugated metal it is--there are huge nails sticking through, like the roofing is the very next layer, and was attached with liberal nail gunning. And I think, "While I am in here I should hope gravity remains toward and not away from the center of the earth."

Not worrying about tomorrow:

worrying--caring-- I asked my Dad about the original Greek of the word. He found the same word for worry in the verse about not worrying about the morrow, is used in verses that tellpeople to care for one another. I asked because in older English, the word "worry" referred more to a haggling/wrestling. Like a dog "worrying at" a bone.

I can see how the word could have positive as well as negative connotations. Care for one another. Be engaged in your concern for your brothers and sisters in Christ, not just "hi how are you? good. 'bye." But don't take that same multi-dimensional concern into your thought life about your future. I can spend all day exploring imaginary pathways into the future, wrestling with ideas and schemes. But there's such peace in recognizing my helplessness, and resting in the present. A time to plan, I suppose, and a time to enjoy the present. I'm off work today, and blogging in a coffee shop full of sunny chatter, is rest for me.

I should start thinking about hitting the road. I look forward to some pitch exercises while driving. Do re, do mi, do fa, do sol. First, though, I might get a bit of cheese cake. No rush.

One thing about this weekend is that my friend's dad is hooking me up with some used sound equipment. I don't know what to expect, and I'm intrigued by this development. And, great gherkins, I just realized I forgot to pack "the Yamaha Sound Reinforcement Handbook."

Blue

I geeked out at Walmart today because there's a new line of makeup, really geared for teenagers. Mascaras in brilliant colors that have nothing to do with natural looks. Etc, etc. I mention the mascara because that's what made me smile. I got one that falls in the range of blues I'm forever attracted to. For many years I've studiously said that all colors are my favorite--a color alone is just not the same as a color next to another---- but I have to say. Any blue in a range of royal blue to deep cerulean, has to be about the best.

Then, as I drove home, the sky ahead of me was saturated cerulean with the burnt orange blend, and in my rear view mirror the sky was the deepest royal blue imaginable. Ah. Philosophically I like a gray sky. It's easier to drive on a gray day. Good moody clouds sometimes reflect my thoughts. But in the end, I realized, I am so glad the sky is blue. The lofty reaches of the heavens: blue: deep, rich. Blue.

Sky. Water. Water colored by tanic acid: ripples of dark blue, light blue, rich brown.

This makes me want to paint.