Friday, August 16, 2013

Game Theory

The presidential motorcade consists of three identical cars with blacked out windows. This way, any potential troublemakers will not know which car the president is riding in. In the long term, it makes sense for Secret Service to use a random number generator to decide which car to put the president in. This way, it will be impossible to predict his location. However, in the short term, it would be in the Secret Service’s best interest to put the president in the car at the back of the motorcade. This last car has the benefit of going through tested territory; the other two cars have cleared the way for the third and have helped to ensure that it is safe to drive through. 

So the dilemma: every time the motorcade is formed, the Secret Service should rationally put the president in the last car. But, if they do this every time, eventually people will catch wind and the whole motorcade system is for naught. 

Thursday, August 1, 2013

Untitled (No. 14)

The Monroe Doctrine
(unfinished)

Special thanks to Chris J, Anna L, Will F, Jack N, and Jon E

Sunday, March 31, 2013

Jim


A picture hangs above the meat section at the supermarket. It’s Jim, I know, because I’ve seen him stocking turkey and I always check the name tags. It doesn’t really matter what the employees’ names are, but while I’m dolefully deciding which detergent matches my personality, it’s nice to know that real people are punching the clock by my side. To remind myself that other conscious beings find themselves critiquing commercials between bouts of Family Feud.

Jim stares at the lens in front of him. He doesn’t see me as I stare at his two-dimensional facsimile. Clearly, he’s unconcerned with the telos of the photograph; he sees the lens for what it is – a piece of curved glass. After this picture, there’s a truckload of kosher beef waiting to be shelved.

He’s probably still trying to convince himself that he’s middle-aged, but hair can only stay dark for so long. A round face with pudgy cheeks, the same mustache he had when he got the job, and simple, functional glasses that mark the steady deterioration of eyesight with each passing year. The caption says “We’re here to help” and an untraceable shame-like feeling enters my stomach.

Sure enough, Jim is in the meat section, inspecting slabs of pork. I begin to approach him, compelled to engage in conversation in hopes of augmenting my flat conception of him and possibly uncovering some truth. He turns and sees me gawking: “Do you need any help?” His eyes are no longer staring at a lens, but at a person. “No thanks,” I mumble as I walk away. Some things are better left alone.

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

Quinoa


“You’re wearing a button-down?” Jon asks me from across the living room. “I’m gonna wear something simple. I think the atmosphere is going to be minimalistic.” He is donning a black v-neck and jeans.

“I’m just wearing what I would wear to synagogue,” I reply, looking down at my forest green shirt and corduroy pants. “But I think you’ll be fine, too.” I glance over at Eytan’s room. “Eytan, what are you wearing?”

He emerges with a graphic tee and jeans. “Wait, should I wear a button-down?”

****

We arrive at the address and find a smaller-than-expected brick building with a Subway restaurant on the first floor. Approaching the apartment-style door and buzzers, I hesitatingly press the button marked SMC. We wait anxiously until a pleasant female voice greets us: “Shambhala Meditation Center, how can I help you?”

As the button-presser, I am the de facto liason for our group. “Hi, is the meditation happening now?” I ask, unsure if the words sound as awkward to her as they do to me.

“Meditation is every Thursday from 6:30 to 7:20.” We are ten minutes late.

“Can we come up and meditate now?”

She says yes and I grab the handle of the door; it won’t open. “The door’s locked,” I tell her. She had already hung up. We take turns trying to open the door – just to make sure – until Eytan sees a sign that instructs visitors to enter on the side of the building. We curl around to the shadowy side, see a cast iron staircase and contemplate climbing it until Jon makes a crack about getting murdered back here. Perhaps we went to the wrong side of the building? We double-check the sign (we were right), walk back to the murderous stairset and eventually make our way to the third floor, where we are greeted by the suddenly visible lady with the pleasant voice. She ushers us in.

The foyer opens into a small room laden with hypo-allergenic carpet and earth-toned furniture. Against the back wall lies a long table holding large bowls that contain berries, nuts and muffins.

The smiling Indian-looking lady instructs us to take off our shoes and asks us if we need instruction to meditate. “Uh, I don’t know,” I answer. It’s a strange question – I know how to meditate per se, but I’ve never been here before and I want to learn the Shambhala technique, if that’s even a thing.

“Well,” she replies “have you meditated before?”

This is the first time someone has asked me that question, as far as I can remember. “Yes.”

She points to a double door down the hallway. “Enter the Shrine Room. Meditation has already begun.”

We approach the room and Jon slowly opens the door. Fifteen-or-so mostly middle-aged people sit cross-legged on plush blue mats facing away from us. Another five are sitting similarly at a 90 degree angle against the other wall on the side. A handsome man in his early thirties is wearing a dress shirt, tie, and glasses, and is staring at us. Actually, he’s just meditating with his eyes open.

Silence, save for a hissing radiator, cars passing outside, and our shoeless steps onto the hardwood floor as we scurry toward three unoccupied mats by the wall. Apparently everyone shows up on time to these things.

A roomful of meditators evokes a placid harmony seemingly unattainable with any other group.  Most of the people here are white and look like they just came from work. I was expecting browner people dressed more comfortably, but am somewhat delighted at the light mix of ages, races, and genders – a cross-section of the affluent Cleveland Park neighborhood we are in. Most of the meditators have their eyes closed and are likely approaching elevated astral planes.

Meanwhile, I am analyzing the shrine at the front of the room; it is composed of a gold-framed psychedelic painting, ornamental glasses filled with water, and candles, and is flanked by two photos – portraits of anonymous Asian people. The man with the glasses is sitting with his back to the shrine and still staring straight ahead. Perhaps it’s time to meditate.

I close my eyes and inhale slowly and deeply. Establishing a consistent breath is always a safe bet to break into the meditation. I’ve done this several times before but, as I take in the silence and begin to introspect, feel inexperienced as I attempt to wade in the psychic space of the Shrine Room. I am comforted by the near certainty that Jon and Eytan are not approaching enlightenment either. Then the thoughts pop up like zits.

It’s been a long time since I’ve meditated; I should do this more often. I wonder how often the people here meditate. Probably every day. Why do they all come here to meditate in a group when they could just do it in the quiet comfort of their apartments? Why am I here? Why am I here?

Realizing the slippery slope I have encountered, I begin to recite a mantra: “keen” on the inhale, pause, “wah” on the exhale, pause. Over and over again I silently say “quinoa,” pleased by the sound but slightly distracted by the imagery. I chose the word instinctively, but it probably stemmed from thoughts about last night’s dinner. I’m starting to get hungry.

This goes on for an indeterminate length of time, all the while thoughts passing in and out. I’ve learned not to get frustrated, but to allow them to flow through until they altogether disappear. Transforming into a deep meditative state is much like falling asleep the night before a concert that I’m really excited to see. I want nothing else but to turn my brain off so the night will pass timelessly, but instead I am shackled to my sheets, unable to release my thoughts for just a few hours. The music is stuck in my ears.

Eventually my body and mind begin to numb and I am no longer narrating this experience.

For a moment I enter the threshold of the illusive meditative state and a barely perceptible headrush of endorphins welcomes me to the party. I am nowhere close to losing my ego, but sustaining this presence is intrinsically rewarding. Then, I become aware of this shift in conscious experience and, consequently, the feeling escapes me. Traffic whooshes past outside, the radiator hums. I am back to square one.

It occurs to me that I have little idea how much time has elapsed since I sat down. Ten minutes? Thirty minutes? With such sparse external stimuli, I am left pondering the rate at which my thoughts transpire. Perhaps everyone is already finished meditating and they are all staring at me, waiting for me to open my eyes. That’s extremely unlikely… but entirely possible. After all, my eyes have been closed this whole time. I try to write off the idea as non-sensical, but the paranoia grows. They are all watching me. I open up my eyes.

They are not all watching me. In fact, everyone’s eyes are still closed (except for the man with the glasses, who is still staring straight ahead, unwavering). Eytan and Jon are now in sync with the other meditators. I close my eyes and change my mantra to a standard “ohm.” I am still hungry.

****

Jon and I are sitting on the earth-toned chairs and exchanging glances. There is light conversation in the room, but it is too quiet to speak candidly about the meditation. Eytan is helping himself to another portion of berries.

The man with the glasses is standing alone by the bowl of nuts; I stand up and approach him. “Hey, were you meditating with your eyes open?”

He smiles warmly, and his words come out with a listless ease. “Yes, that’s the way they teach us to meditate here. I stare about five feet in front of me.”

“Doesn’t that make it difficult for you to concentrate?” I ask.

“No, not really. I guess I’m used to it.” He grabs some nuts and eats them. “How long have you been meditating?”

I pause and think. “About two years, but not consistently. I have enough trouble concentrating with my eyes closed, I can’t imagine trying to meditate with them open.”

“For a long time it was difficult for me to focus because thoughts would come into my head during meditation and I couldn’t get rid of them.” I begin to nod as he speaks. “It can be very frustrating. But after enough practice, I learned to filter them out.”

“If you’re trying to get really deep into meditation, why don’t you close your eyes? Isn’t it easier to focus without any visual stimuli?” I ask.

“Well, there are two components of meditation: mindfulness and awareness,” he says, turning both palms up to emphasize the duality. “You’re referring to mindfulness. The mind is trying to focus on a single point during meditation, compressing all activity to the center of your mental space. This isn’t easy to do when you have thoughts floating around. But, awareness is important as well. That is, how our mind and body fits into our environment. And for me, this is easier to do with my eyes open. It’s a balance between the two.”

Even now as he stares at me, I get the feeling he is still in a meditative state. “Mindfulness and awareness,” I repeat, letting the sounds soak into my ears.

My focus turns to Jon and Eytan, who are anxiously eyeing me from the door.  “Hey, I’m glad I got a chance to speak with you, but I think my friends are waiting for me.” We shake hands and I approach them.

As we step outside into the doldrums of Cleveland Park, Eytan asks, “What do you want to do for dinner?”


Tuesday, February 5, 2013

Mustard/Hand Soap

I put up a What’s New? dry-erase board in the common room of my apartment and encouraged all of my roommates to begin using it.  Now when friends come over they know exactly what’s happening so we can skip the bullshit and get straight to business.  Alternatively, it is a good tool for starting conversations with friends’ friends, or anyone else I don’t know that happens to be on my couch. 

Sometimes I’ll list small accomplishments that wouldn’t make sense to bring up out of the nowhere, but I would still like to brag about (winning our intramural basketball game, getting an A on a test).  Or, it can be used for merely commenting on the state of our apartment:  “We have a sign but don’t know where to put it.”  So now you can enter our thought space when you enter our living space.

It has a multitude of other uses but I won’t exhaust them here.

Now that “what’s new” is always represented in the apartment and consciously on our minds, my roommates and I will be more vigilant about the activities of each other and ourselves.  I’m curious how this will play out over the semester.





Sunday, January 27, 2013

Metamathematics

"The free realization of human truth is everywhere in all desires." 
-Sartre

I know this one...

When I was a kid, I had no idea that residents of a municipality pay for waste collection via taxes.  Similarly, I was unaware of the fact that businesses and individuals may hire waste management firms to haul away their trash if necessary.  Signs proclaiming dumpsters as “private” were baffling to me as a child because, as far as I knew, dumpsters were (by definition) communal.  I assumed that trash just kind of gets taken care of and disappears, and I never pressed the issue.  

A sundae is an ice cream salad.


To Do:  Watch one of the shows where the chubby guy goes to different places and gets really enthusiastic about the local cuisine, while I’m eating the same stuff that he is.

If you could visit any place in the world, where would you go?

Everyone is weird once you get to know them.


The primary function of listening to music, reading, and watching movies is to see where my thoughts will take me.  There is no intrinsic artistic value.

I haven't encountered a racist protagonist who remains racist throughout the work.  If she is racist, it is only so that she may overcome her racism and therefore grow as a character.  

First World Anarchists

Thursday, January 3, 2013

Apatheism


“Don’t tell a hype man to calm down.”
-Chris

Blame Latin


Every time someone mentions the “internet revolution” in relation to “recent advances in technology” I want to throw a computer at his head.

Brown is actually dark orange.

What’s the shortest an era can be?

Whether or not God actually "exists" doesn’t affect my life, or anyone else’s.


In The Pale King, David Foster Wallace says that if you ask a friend “What’s wrong?” at first they will deny that anything is wrong, but if you persist (“No, something’s wrong.  I can tell.  What is it?”), they will tell reveal that something is wrong, and will share their problems with you.  Ostensibly, there is always something eating at everyone, whether or not we realize it. 

Every time you get a text message, someone was thinking about you.

“A Freudian slip is when you say one thing but fuck your mother.”


The NFL and NHL are tax-exempt.

Whenever I’m on Wikipedia looking up people, I always check to see how long they lived first.

Reading:  Symbolic Logic by Lewis Carroll
Listening to:  There's Nothing Wrong With Love by Built to Spill
Writing:  Boring short story
Playing:  Fingerpicked chord progressions
Watching:  David Lynch