Something about such a conclusion struck me as being a sort of circular logic, but not being a particularly well regarded physicist myself I mentally shrugged it off. Then I found the following quote Douglas Adams gave at a lecture at UC Santa Barbara:

It’s rather like a puddle waking up one morning - I know they don’t normally do this, but allow me, I’m a science fiction writer. - A puddle wakes up one morning and thinks: “This is a very interesting world I find myself in. It fits me very neatly. In fact it fits me so neatly… I mean really precise isn’t it?... It must have been made to have me in it.” And the sun rises, and [the puddle is] continuing to narrate this story about how this hole must have been made to have him in it. And as the sun rises, and gradually the puddle is shrinking and shrinking and shrinking - and by the time the puddle ceases to exist, it’s still thinking - it’s still trapped in this idea that - that the hole was there for it.

.

first a bit from the books intro:

calligraphy means here - in the strict definition of the word - an art which is conscious, founded upon upon a code of geometric and decorative rules: an art which, in patterns which it creates, implies a theory of language and of writing. this art starts off as part of a linguistic structure and institutes an alternative set of rules, derived from language but dramatizing and duplicating it by transposing it into visual terms.

calligraphy is of course the art of writing, but the practice is by no means universal. many peoples have not developed it in detail, whereas for others it is regarded as a supreme art. the japanese describe a person as ‘having beautiful handwriting’ when they mean he is graceful and handsome. the arab calligraphers consider that their art was the geometry of the soul expressed through the body - a metaphor which can be taken literally and concretely with the literal design of its inspiring spirit. this metaphor refers back to an established language as, so to speak, its reflection, its language of love. among people without calligraphic tradition beautiful handwriting can of course be found anywhere - in a private letter letter, for instance. but this comes from an expression of feeling not rooted in a general knowledge and technique of calligraphy, it remains an individual impulse within the totality of of a culture. we use the word calligraphy here to denote an all-embracing cultural manifestation which structures the philosophical basis of regular language.

i’m always inspired by these creatively. hope you enjoyed too.
i’ll be glad to offer more info on any of the pieces upon request.

so here we are.

the scene opens on what would appear to be a man. in this case the man in question is walking. Nothing dramatic, just one foot after the other along the side of a road. There is no catchy tune synching perfectly with his steps I’m afraid, though you are more than welcome to imagine one. it’s dark and the air is cool. judging by the temperature it’s almost certainly autumn at perhaps… 8:27 p.m. if i had to make a guess. “almost, perhaps, if i had to make a guess.” a good title for an relativist poem but a lot of hedging for one sentence I know. especially a sentence located smack in the center of scene setting exposition. but really who can be sure about these things?

it’s a quiet night and there’s a definite chill in the air. that’s all i’m saying. 

he’s slightly pigeon-toed, our walking man. his black lace-up shoes are nondescript but the toes scuff one another occasionally as he trudges along. so that’s something, a bit of “quirky” specific detail which we narrators are supposed to use in order to spice up the proceedings. here’s another- he’s not a black man. Not that you said he was. Neither does he appear to be asian, hispanic, american indian, or of middle eastern descent. i suppose it’s possible that if you traced his ancestors back far enough you might find one or all of these races perched on limbs of his family tree but for our purposes let’s just say he’s a white guy. at least he looks kind of white… or ashen? more of a pallor possibly… Put it this way- if you saw him passing by and wanted to get his attention, say to warn him of an oncoming truck, you might yell out “hey cracker watch out! ...Damned fool.” you could replace cracker with gringo or infidel… your perogative really, but you get the picture… if you saw him and wanted to reach into your slur bag you’d most likely pull from the whitey pile.

So our pigeon toed cracker is wearing blue jeans and a grey heather sweatshirt, if your interested in that kind of thing, though it’s about as average an outfit as you’re likely to see. Which is to say it doesn’t tell you much about him, or more accurately doesn’t offer you anything substantial to fuel your dependable ol’ assumption engine with. he’s of medium height and medium build. Does not seem to have a limp, or club foot, nor does he appear to have any talent for swagger. he’s just kind of trudging along. all told there’s nothing much to distinguish him from from any other average looking whitish guy out for an evening stroll, except of course for the space helmet he’s wearing.

did i neglect to mention that?

yup. he’s wearing an out-of-date looking space helmet. could be one of those helmets developed for “Tomato worm” pressure suits back in the 1940’s. or it could be a more modern lexan model without the visor assembly and silver coating. maybe it’s some newfangled model which requires none of the additional do-daddery we’ve come to expect… truth be told, more than anything, it looks like a giant, upside down, goldfish bowl.

i suppose your assumption engine jolted to life on the power of that little nugget huh? he’s a crashed astronaut wandering in an amnesiac haze trying desperately to put the pieces together and reveal his own identity! or he’s a time traveller from the year 3014 returning to our time in order to find a genetically perfect bride! yeah, maybe, but you know the old chestnut about making assumptions. it could be halloween and the guy’s got no flair for costumes or maybe he’s a prop comic on his way to a gig. possibly he’s just a nut. 

i can’t tell you much more about his looks. the helmet is a bit fogged up you see. all that warm breath inside and cool air outside. only natural. science and all. he looks to have big dreamy dark eyes though it might just be a shadow. what i can tell you is he does not have the faintest idea where he is going. i know this because being narrator i’m privy to some of his thoughts. for instance at this very moment he’s thinking:

...for both of them to say that… not one uncle but both, from both sides. the same exact thing… “don’t think there’s much hope for you bucky.” one while packing his pipe, the other gutting a fish… what a dick thing to say… i’d like to know the odds on them both saying that same exact thing. had they spoken to one another? group consensus? towing the “uncle” party line? bucky?! who says bucky? bucko maybe, buckaroo… just bugs me… they are family so they’re not apt to just throw out thoughtless damning pronouncements for no reason are they? on the other hand they’re just uncles, not fathers, not so close that they would be blinded or compelled to bite their tongue for niceties sake…

see? not even paying attention to where he’s going. more interested in this perceived synchronicity of uncle-judgement. had i tuned you in earlier you’d have heard the part about his aunts. both of whom evidently told him he’d be a “heartbreaker.” some folks might take that as a compliment but not our space-helmeted, pigeon-toed, ashen-faced infidel here. he figured it was a prettied up way of saying he’d be a disappointment to the women in his life; that he seemed to them either cruel and uncaring or fundamentally lacking something somehow. i’m paraphrasing. point is he didn’t take it to mean he was handsome. as is the peculiar ability of the living, his feet continue to come down one in front of the other propelling him onward, though his mind is elsewhere entirely.

a multitude of wobbly stars are winking above him. below his auto-piloted feet dirt and gravel crunch. he’s walking beside a road. not a very well-travelled road admittedly. not a single vehicle has passed by. there are street lights every three hundred feet or so. when he passes below one his helmet glints, bouncing light across his brow, and in the space of a few steps his shadow is born, grows, moves away, and dies out. he might have found it poetic in a certain way if he’d noticed, but he didn’t. totally oblivious. for instance if he were paying any attention at all he’d most certainly notice the orange glow up ahead of him surrounding the gas station sign and the smoke plumes billowing up into the darkness.

...if i’d been a gardener or a banker or anything else it’d all be different. harriet would have stuck around. or at least she’d have to be more imaginative about her excuse for leaving… ridiculous… what did she expect this kind of life would be like? if i’d been something else, a mechanic, a grocer, anything… i wouldn’t be out here in…

a light goes on in that distracted mind of his and some curiosity about his surroundings finally dawns. it’s only coincidence that he stops right there under a street lamp, his helmet glinting. as i surmised he can’t help but notice the tell tale signs of catastrophe by fire up around the bend. all else is darkness so there’s not much else to notice. 

what the hell’s going on up there? fire? geez does my head hurt… no more nights like this one. can’t be. can’t go on this way. what was i thinking?! i didn’t even use any protection. stupid stupid… god that cloud is thick! a tire fire or something? i really out to be getting back… but where is everyone? wonder what happened? crap… could be a crash…

snapped out of his dazed trudging revery he sets off at a trot toward the glowing and crackling and billowing, mysterious only in its particulars. the street lamps pass over his head quickly, generations of shadows being born and dying out below his footfalls, but he doesn’t get far. turning the bend he almost tackles two guys standing dumbly in the middle of the road with their backs to him. he manages to put the breaks on but the two are startled and wheel around to face him. their clothes are singed and blackened and torn. one of them is missing a shoe. he also has a gun pointed straight at our gringo. they both look freaked.

...shit! they look freaked.

luckily they each have on inverted goldfish bowl helmets as well. recognition dawns on all three at the same instant.

-“bill?”

-“joe?”

-“bob?”

-“joe?”

they know one another. judging by the names called out it’s safe to say our guy is joe, while the disheveled and singed two are bill and bob. the gun is dropped, the gap between them disappears, and the questions begin in earnest.

“what the hell happened to you two?” asks joe.

“bob here fucked with the wrong bad ass that’s what! started asking him questions, tried the ol’ ‘take me to your leader bit’, gave him a little ray gun and the guy just blew up, knocked us clear across the street into the woods. i told him not to fuck with the guy. he was built like a refrigerator and had a dick like 8 feet long! i’m serious that’s not a metaphor. ” says bill.

“yeah, bad move as it turns out. i lost a shoe,” adds bob. “what are you doing here? i thought you left last week.”

...crap, here we go. thinks joe but says nothing.

“let me guess. that letter from harriet last week… could you be out carousing? screwing the natives? you’ve got a boot print on your crotch so i’ll assume you didn’t shoot over to new mexico for your jollies like the rest of us do. were you out probing primates in the middle of Minnesota joe?! you sicko.” joe squirmed in place and bob looked pleased. “i hope you were safe joe, you know how filthy these earthlings are…”

“leave him alone bob,” offers bill sympathetically.

“no, it’s fine. he’s right. i was bar-hopping. stupid i know… just didn’t want to go home.” concedes joe, slouching a bit, the tips of his toes touching.

“but i bet you want to go home now huh? i sure do,” says bill. “it’s always the same story, a night out to let off steam, some light probing, a little abduction… in the end you always feel… dirty; always regret it.”

joe stood there looking at his feet. the glow from the fire was dying down a bit. their shadows, merged as they were into conjoined triplets, swayed back and forth across the blacktop. he didn’t regret it. he hated this damned planet and it’s ugly primates, but he was tired. “yeah, i’m gonna go i think. you guys probably should too, the fuzz will be along soon i’m sure.”

bill nods. “we’re parked a little ways off, up there past the gas station, in a wheat field. we already layed down the circles. wanna ride with us? might as well. harriet’s got your saucer right?”

joe nods back.

bob slides the ray gun into his charred ray gun holster taking a last quick look around for his lost shoe. “screw it,” he mumbles. and with that the scene ends the way 59 percent of all scenes do, with a person, or a group of people, walking off into the sunset. only in this case the people aren’t exactly people and the sunset isn’t really a sunset. aliens walking off into the glow of a gas station fire is close enough though i think, and will do just fine for our purposes.

comedy:

An alien walks into a bar and sits down next to big guy in combat boots. after about ten minutes and two drinks the Alien licks his finger and puts it into the guy’s ear. the guy gets pissed but sees the aliens space helmet, figures he’s a nut, and holds his tongue.

ten minutes and two drinks later the Alien does it again. this time the guy shoves the alien away saying “If you do that again I will kick the shit out of you.”

ten minutes and a ciggarette later the Alien does it again. the guy jumps off his bar seat grabs the alien and sinks his combat boot deep into the aliens crotch. the alien is totally unfazed he gets back up on his barstool and orders another drink.

the guy is freaked out and says “dude! What the fuck? I just kicked you in the nuts and you didn’t flinch!” the Alien says “that’s because I don’t have any nuts.” he drops trou just long enough to prove it.

now the guy’s really freaked. he says, “jesus christ. you’ve got no nuts! how do you fuck?”

the Alien licks his finger and puts it into the guy’s ear.

meanwhile across town

two aliens, a smart one and a tough one, land their space ship and walk over to a nearby gas station. they both walk up to the gas pump.

the tough-guy alien looks at the pump and says, “take me to your leader!” of course the gas pump says nothing.

the smart alien says “i dont think that is a good idea.”

the tough-guy alien looks at the pump again and demands to be taken to the leader. the gas pump says nothing.

the smart alien says, “that’s really not a good idea man.”

losing his patience, the badass alien pulls his out his ray gun.

The smart alien shouts,  “No, you don’t want to make him mad!”

But before the sentence is finished the tough guy alien zaps the pump with his ray gun.

There is a huge explosion that blows both of them clear across the street, where they land in a charred heap. when they finally regain consciousness, the tough guy alien turns to the smart one and says, “What a mean motherfucker! he damn near killed us! How did you know he was so dangerous?”

The smart alien answers, “If there’s one thing I’ve learned during my travels through the galaxy, it’s that when a guy has a dick he can wrap around himself twice and then stick it in his own ear, you don’t fuck with him.”

How to Escape from a Sinking Car

1. As soon as you hit the water, open your window. This is your best chance of escape, because opening the door will be very difficult given the outside water pressure. (To be safe, you should drive with the windows and doors slightly open whenever you are near water or driving on ice.) Opening the window allows water to come in and equalize the pressure. Once the water pressure inside and outside the car is equal, you’ll be able to open the door.

2. If your power windows won’t work or you cannot roll your windows down all the way, attempt to break the glass with your foot, shoulder, or a heavy object such as an antitheft steering wheel lock.

3. Get out.  Do not worry about leaving anything behind unless it is another person. Vehicles with engines in front will sink at a steep angle. If the water is fifteen feet or deeper, the vehicle may end up on its roof, upside down. For this reason, you must get out as soon as possible, while the car is still afloat. Depending on the vehicle, floating time will range from a few seconds to a few minutes. The more airtight the car, the longer it floats. Air in the car will be quickly forced out through the trunk and cab. An air bubble is unlikely to remain once the car hits bottom. Get out as early as possible.

4. If you are unable to open the window or break it, you have one final option. Remain calm and do not panic. Wait until the car begins filling with water. When the water reaches your head, take a deep breath and hold it. Now the pressure should be equalized inside and outside, and you should be able to open the door and swim to the surface.

__________________________________________________

How to Jump from a Building into a Dumpster

How to Jump

1. Jump straight down. If you leap off and away from the building at an angle, your trajectory will make you miss the Dumpster. Resist your natural tendency to push off.

2. Tuck your head and bring your legs around. To do this during the fall, execute a three-quarter revolution—basically, a not-quite-full somersault. This is the only method that will allow a proper landing, with your back facing down.

3. Aim for the center of the Dumpster.

4. Land flat on your back so that when your body folds, your feet and hands meet. When your body hits any surface from a significant height, the body folds into a V. This means landing on your stomach can result in a broken back.

Be Aware

* If the building has fire escapes or other protrusions, your leap will have to be far enough out so you miss them on your way down. The landing target needs to be far enough from the building for you to hit it.

* The Dumpster may be filled with bricks or other unfriendly materials. It is entirely possible to survive a high fall (five stories or more) into a Dumpster, provided it is filled with the right type of trash (cardboard boxes are best) and you land correctly.

__________________________________________________

How to Foil a UFO Abduction

1. Do not panic. The extraterrestrial biological entity (EBE) may sense your fear and act rashly.

2. Control your thoughts. Do not think of anything violent or upsetting—the EBE may have the ability to read your mind. Try to avoid mental images of abduction (boarding the saucer, anal probes); such images may encourage them to take you.

3. Resist verbally. Firmly tell the EBE to leave you alone.

4. Resist mentally. Picture yourself enveloped in a protective shield of white light, or in a safe place. Telepathic EBEs may get the message.

5. Resist physically. Physical resistance should be used only as a last resort. Go for the EBE’s eyes (if it has any)—you will not know what its other, more sensitive areas are.

__________________________________________________

See what I mean?

There are a few more available online via popular mechanics. Happy survivin’.

In 1983 and 1984 I was ‘production manager’ at woods hole weekly, one of those small indie papers you get for free at the market, all attitude and no budget. the staff was tiny (never more people than you could fit in a van) so it was easy to have a job title that sounded important. as production manager i was a jack-of-all-trades around the office, but really it was paste-up work, mostly. and back then, actual wax was used for paste-up. occasionally I’d do an illustration, as for example this drawing for an article on ocean pollution (pelagic_tar, to be exact).
it pains me to see all the misspellings in this article, but i think that was someone else’s department.

On another occasion I had to come up with a front-page illustration and left it to last. increasingly paranoid, alone in the middle of the night, with nobody to consult, i finally said, the hell with it, I’ll do whatever I want. the folks over at the cape codder (the big paper which did our print runs) raved about the result. go figure! paranoia was, after all, the subtext of the illustration, i suppose. front page, above the fold: woods_hole_weekly.jpg. a better look: woods_hole_weekly_detail.jpg. the illustration was black and white acrylic on paper, and the red lights are an overlay (the front page always had black and one other color, so for this issue I picked orange and got extra mileage out of that). had to leave the paper and work in a nursing home, because my then g.f. luci was pregnant with heidi (the stranglee in my turkey day post). in newspapers, you don’t earn much of a living unless you’re an utter sellout…

while I had trouble articulating what i wanted to say as a serious artist, certain images compel me. I’ve always loved space art, especially chesley bonestell, and there’s a certain hunger i feel when I see a full moon, akin to the feeling i get when i see open water; a desire to dive in, to fly without aid, to travel without difficulty, without borders. moon.jpg

some of these were technical experiments with krylon matte black spraypaint as a background. this paint is so dark and nonreflective that even pencil appears silvery on it. it’s a bit like velvet painting but classier… night_city.jpg another technical experiment, acrylic paint with firecrackers:firecracker.jpg. now this is truly asemic! the thing i like about this experiment is that it creates fine, lacy patterns that i could never do deliberately: detail: firecrackerdetail.jpg. even if it does burn holes in the paper…

a bolder bit of surrealism, and obviously i’d been looking at ‘the bride stripped bare’ when I did this one back in ‘78: jeer.jpg

these last pictures say a great deal about the artist. for one thing, i really love to do landscapes, perhaps to the point of getting in a rut. I’ve never been good at portraiture; perhaps it’s an actual discomfort with other people that prevents me from observing them as i would a leaf: leaf.jpg in any event, i love deep focus (think orson welles’ films) and so compose an image with a detailed leaf blown before trees and mountans. and why so hard to finish a picture? lack of confidence, to be sure; what else can one read into a painting of an abandoned truck on a road that dead-ends in a pond? abandoned_truck.jpg

which brings me to one of the last things i painted (circa 1985) before essentially abandoning the brush for the guitar, and probably my best painting even, or especially,  unfinished: climber.jpg it’s all there, isn’t it? in the first light of dawn, in air so clear that far things are brought near, an unfinished man, climbing between jagged rocks toward an unreachable, impossible moon.  it’s not about me. it is me. no wonder i had to move on.