Monday, November 29, 2010

A Theory on Memory

What are memories?

The first instinct is to say, "well, they're memories." But are these physical stitches in time? Or are these merely just the past? Alternatively, they could be building blocks to our future.

The first facet to grasp I suppose, is the fact that our memories exist only in our minds. What has happened in the external world, has been stored and documented in our personal internal world. Memories live in the past but remain vapor in our minds, giving us only a mere smudge of what we once saw clear as day, sound as night, high as the sky.

But why do our memories only give us a taste? Why have some aspects of our memories stuck to our minds and not others?

The answer may lie in what our future holds. What has happened and what WILL happen may share a common biological thread. What you DO remember may constitute what you eventually will do, for we base all of our actions on decisions on what we have decided or have done before.

For instance: I have a memory, a deep, visual memory, in which my friends and I are walking through the town powerlines, in the woods, at night, in the dead cold of winter. The sky was clear and cold, and we were clear and cold as well. I can probably remember where we ended up, or something we did after, but visually, there are only mere frames; frames of my shortest friend bundled up with a smile in a long, long jacket; a frame of the clear sky; a frame of roasting marijuana in a bowl, surrounded by the steam of our cold breath, maybe four or five of us. When I look back, sometimes there's snow, and sometimes there isn't.

So why only mere frames? Are we only SUPPOSED to remember certain things, certain things of value to our eventual future? Is there a filter, within the mind that filters out memories that are not valuable? And outside of this filter, is all we've ever seen, heard, thought, and felt stored somewhere deep within the mind, with a small possibility of resurfacing? It could be so.

Music. We hear it everywhere, every day. As a musician, it's safe to say that I probably listen to music differently than people who are not musicians. When I play my instrument, rather, when I IMPROVISE on my instrument, where, are my ideas coming from? Well, from things I've learned, of course. But am I consciously digging up these techniques I've picked up? Not at all. Am I thinking of a sentence I learned when I was a child, when I am talking to you now? Not at all. This raises a different set of questions.

So memories may stagger in intermittently, whenever they see fit? Might they have lives, souls, and universes of their own? It could be so, it could be so.

However it seems in the present that it's only important to MAKE memories. For in the present, memories don't exist. So it seems to be the only way to live; to make more memories. But when we look back, consciously, do they matter?

Perhaps we should let memories enter the present, at their own will, for they may be universes of their own.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Individualism in 2010

Who are you?

Have you any idea?

Where will you go?

Have you given it any thought?

Whatever the case, it all will come from within. I find as I grow older that this is something most people do not understand. They're under the illusion that knowledge, twists of fate, and life progression come from the outside world, the world we see, when in reality it should come from within.

So how does one purify themselves, straighten themselves out, from within? How does one initiate a life focus, or develop a drive and ambition for their existence, from within? In a world with billions of people, it all starts with being alone; solitude.

Take a three-hour block out of your day, and go for a walk, by yourself. If possible, try to steer yourself away from the roads and into rural settings, like farmland, woodland and near bodies of water. An important facet of this exercise is to NOT know where you're going, to construct your route as you go along. This will keep you in the now, and not in the future or the past.

Your attitude must change. The Art of Walking does not begin with counting your steps, or scanning through your cell phone, which should really stay at home. It begins with an open mind. The more you open up yourself to each and every one of your surroundings, the more you will learn and appreciate it. Any object, idea, or natural phenomena can leave a drastic impression on you if your mind is open to its influence.

What you're essentially practicing is a form of mobile-meditation of sorts. It's not a heavy meditation that involves a deep trance, but rather a mild form that keeps you focused and easily influenced by your surroundings. The important thing is to forget about yourself and your life, and return to man's natural need to walk, live, and learn. In order to do this you must open your mind.

Opening your mind may be hard for you to understand, let alone do. What I mean by this is to focus on the NOW and ONLY the now. You may find that when you leave your abode and set out for your walk, your mind is far from open; that is normal. After walking for about an hour or two, your mind should start to deter from what was occupying it before. Many individuals take walks just to clear their head. Once it is clear, you may begin to learn.

Time spent alone is more valuable than time spent with others. Some people are comfortable by themselves, and some people are not. Those that are uncomfortable with themselves must walk to clear their minds. Those that ARE somewhat comfortable being alone are one step ahead of those who aren't, and will be closer to learning.

I've found, though, that most people who are by themselves are surrounding themselves with "things to do by themselves", i.e. television, Blackberries, food, internet, video games, reading books, or even sleeping. Solitude usually involves much self-retrospect, an analyzing and organizing of the brain-files. With that said, it's important to not really do much of ANYTHING when you are alone. It causes you to think and analyze your current existence, which makes many people feel uncomfortable. The thought of being alone and not doing anything, the thought alone, makes people uncomfortable.

So with no destination, and no obvious distractions, become a walking observer, and nothing more. Notice everything, and I mean everything. Notice the hues and colors of the trees, the buildings, and the sky above. Notice human behavior. Watch wild animals scamper around. Go out of your way to notice everything. Don't just take the sunset for what it is. Sure, the sunset is beautiful. However, the best artist/painter/sculpter of all is the human eye, of which we all have, and which we must learn to see with in a more artistic light. Nothing will ever change for you if you continue to take the sunset, and things like it, for granted.

So, let's roll with the sunset concept for a minute. When you're driving down the road, headed somewhere, and you drive towards the sunset or catch a glimpse of the sunset, you'll silently remark at its beauty, and drive on. But when you're on foot, and you have the choice to stop and examine it in the elements, you should start to observe, and actually ALLOW it to have an impression on you. If you're having trouble, just imagine it being more beautiful than usually, and after a few minutes, it should become that beautiful.

Notice how as the sun gets lower, the hues and clouds in the sky become more vibrant and deep. Realize that two minutes ago, the colors were very different. Now, examine the structure of the clouds. Notice their softness, their grace. Now consider the creator, the designer of this wonderful art. We will never know who or what it is, so don't get religious on me and bother trying; it's no use. It's philosophy at that point.

But a common philosophy unfolds, one that the Greeks believed as well. The Greeks believed that the seer, as well as the thing seen, is One. Having been alone, you will have experienced it differently than if you have been with someone else. It would look the same to both of you, and would probably affect the both of you in similar ways. However each of you looking at the same sunset by yourself would yield very different results.

Therefore, it can be believed that in fact WE are the artists of sunsets. WE are the artists of rain and snow. WE are the creators of heaven and earth. Because without the brain, without our existence, nothing else is there. Everything is here because we are currently percieving it. When you are dead and gone, how do people remember you? The answer is that they remember you in their minds, and nothing more. No one knows where you actually "go", but they remember that you were once here, and that now you are not.

Confusing, indeed. But this strays from the individualist point-of-view we started this discussion with. When you die, the world shuts off. Again, we don't know where you "go", but it's safe to say everything you knew, saw, smelled, and touched, is no more. Why? Because it's all perception, conception, and deception; everything came from your mind. So it's led many philosophers to believe that without the mind, not only you but the whole world you perceive would cease to exist. Sure, you're friends and family are still alive....but are they? In your mind, ARE THEY?

These explanations only go so far, that's what philosophy is. But the purpose of this article was to illustrate the power of the individual mind, the power to shape your view of the world into anything you want. Your world is seen by you, and you only. It may seem like your contemporaries view the same world, but your contemporaries are also facets of your mind. The deeper you think about these concepts (and everything in this world may just be a concept), the more in touch with yourself you will become, and you will determine a path for yourself, either as you go along, or in advance when thinking deeply to yourself.

But the catch, for those of you who hate being alone, is solitude. You will never notice the shape of things when you are with others, you will only notice the things themselves. Being alone and discovering yourself is the key to discovering your life's purpose and the Art of Walking is an exercise for beginning and master thinkers alike.

When you walk, do not return home until you've taken something from the experience. It may not seem like it, but you've got all the time in the world. All knowledge to be known is right out in the air, you don't even need to be taught; all you need to do is reach out for it, from within. From my experience (and, upon reading, many others'), this may very well be the truth. You need not be a scholar to become suddenly affected by yourself. You will know.

Friday, November 12, 2010

A Mid-Day Walk




In the middle hours one Friday afternoon, I chanced to take a short walk through my neck of the woods, with eyes set on the woods themselves.

I was partially inspired by one William Wordsworth who I stumbled upon while reading a biography about Thoreau. I then purchased a biography of Wordsworth and came to learn that he too, like Thoreau, was keen to the Art of Walking.

It wasn't a particularly long walk, and it was not planned out with any reservation. On this particular Thursday in mid-November, it was vibrant blue skies, and a steady and still 65-degree temperature. One of those gifts the morning sun brings, once every blue moon.

DEPARTING

I wore jeans, hand-me-down Merrells, boot socks and a three-season jacket, Hanna hat on top. My pockets housed a shitty and neglected cell phone, a pipe, a lighter, a cigarette pack containing two cigarettes, my wallet, and an Aleve canister with a gram of cannabis inside. Why I brought my wallet and not a pocketknife instead, I am not sure. I wasn't planning on buying anything or particularly visiting anywhere.

The sun was still almost completely above the trees when I zipped up my jacket and crossed my street. The air was the epitome of fall, with the added treat of warm temperature. With the sun still beaming, I remember feeling like I could take my jacket off, and unzipped it as I walked down the road's hill and into the sun rays.

At the foot of the hill I passed an older fellow walking his small, toy doggie that probably really "belonged" to his wife. From a distance still, I watched them up ahead of me, the man letting the dog snoop around someone's yard amongst the leaves. As quiet as my step generally is, the dog noticed me and from a distance still, he began barking. The man did not take action, he just tugged on the leash, and basically dragged the dog as it continued to bark at me as I approached. As I passed, I glanced at the dog and widened my eyes at him; he then turned away and begin barking at something else.

THE ROAR OF ROUTE 9 AND THE FOREST-GREEN BICYCLE

After passing the entrance to the supermarket I came to the intersection of Route 9 and Lake Street. I thumbed the walk button and tapped my foot as I waited for the light. Where are all of these people going, I remember thinking; green light, yellow light, read light, all underneath the autumn sun. Curse these mongloid transit hounds. They've got you all by the balls - oops - pedestrian light.

I ran across Route 9 to avoid an ambulance screaming toward me. I started walking up the hill with Border's Book Store to my right, and I can remember already growing tired of walking on the road. Passing a small yard sale on my right, I took a gander as I passed by and saw nothing except a forest green mountain bike that interested me. I remember saying to myself, "Fancy that; a walker who buys a bike at a yard sale."

I continued walking on and eventually approached Ed PaQuette's acre or two, where corn grows in the summer. It had all been pulled and there was nothing but tilled dirt and leaveless plants and trees, so I decided to get off the road and saunter the perimeter.

OFF-ROAD AT LAST

I dunked my hands into the ground and examined the soil. To my surprise it looked very meek. I walked on and observed the woods to the left of me, the back line of the plantation. I wanted to relax under the trees, "where I am more well-known", and have myself a smoke. I thought I noticed some open area with some large rocks and fallen timber through the trees, so I disappeared off the farmland into the woods.

Immediately I was overcome by the loud annoyance of walking on the dead leaves. A hunter would be absolutely disgruntled, I remember thinking. It was a beautiful sound, and one I've always loved, but I wasn't trying to draw attention to myself, so I walked swiftly through some brush and the terrain dropped down to this "rock spot" I had seen.

Someone had been here before. As soon as I arrived, I peered up to examine the impressive oaks, and immediately noticed what looked to be a hunter's ladder-and-seat system fastened to one of the trees. I looked up higher and noticed the tree's thick, slender, and curvy branches that are easy to reach with the aid of the ladder-and-seat. I began wondering if it was a hunter's tool, or rather just a child's means of reaching the tops of trees?

I took out a small cannabis blossom and relaxed on the pipe for about ten, fifteen minutes. I seated myself on the rocks, and with nearly all the leaves off the trees, I was able to observe the distant, surrounding landscape through the trees. What a marvelous gem of land, and I remember thinking. My thoughts drifted toward farming, and how plentiful agriculture was in Shrewsbury back in the 19th and 20th centuries. It must have been pleasant living here; quiet and not far from the nearby and up-and-coming city of Worcester. Lake Quinsigamond was probably clean and clear, and tradesman of all kinds probably walked these hills as I have today, though not on roads of asphalt and fallen trash but on nothing but dead leaves and the dirty ground, the Mother Earth below the human foot.

LAST STRETCH ON LAKE STREET

I wanted to beat the sun. I pocketed my pipe and retraced my steps back onto the farmland, coming back out on Lake Street. Passing by the Hillside Cemetary, I remember running around through there as a younger boy. Even back then I was able to remark at its beauty, and as I walked by the sign and was reminded of the images in my mind, I thought about having my own gravestone there someday, which would read:

JON BONNER
MUSICIAN/NATURALIST

"WALK WHAT'S LEFT OF THE
SHREWSBURY WOODS, MY
FRIENDS; THEY ARE AS
PRETTY AS ANYWHERE ELSE."

I dodged traffic as Lake Street started going downhill. I was going to cut right into the powerlines and come out on Oak Street, which was just over half-a-mile ahead. When I approached the lines and found my first opportunity in, a small footpath that lead to a dirt walking path.

The powerlines, seem to run North and South, through all of these surrounding Worcester suburbs. The lines crackle and hiss, and the towers that support them are impressive clunks of metal that look like they're right out of Star Wars. Friends and I have joked about radiation and being "exposed" when you're out there, but I've never noticed anything.

THE POWERLINES (RADIATION TOWERS)

As I walked through the Radiation Towers and the sun began to get low, walking by myself, I heard a noise. It sounded at first like a motor, like a leafblower or a dirtbike...As a walked on, the dirt path was taking zig-zags up and down the terrain, and the motor-like noise was getting more intense, louder, and more powerfully driven. At this moment it began to sound like a chainsaw, getting closer and closer to me each minute.

I pressed on, a bit anxiously, and was stopped in my tracks by a piece of white paper posted to one of the wooden Radiation Towers. I approached the sign, and even found a few more copies posted later on in my walk. It read:

HELP!
I AM A FELLOW BOWHUNTER. I'VE HUNTED THESE
WOODS FOR MANY YEARS. THIS YEAR, FOR THE
FIRST TIME, SOMEONE STOLE NOT ONLY MY NEW
TREE STAND BUT ALSO MY $300 TRAIL CAMERA.
LIKE YOU, I CAN'T AFFORD THIS LOSS. WORSE,
I FEEL DISPIRITED THAT MY HUNTING HAS BEEN
RUINED BY SOMEONE BOTH THOUGHTLESS AND
GREEDY. HE OBVIOUSLY KNOWS THESE WOODS AND
HAS NO SENSE OF HONESTY OR RESPECT FOR HIS
FELLOW HUNTERS. EVERYONE ELSE IN THESE WOODS
IS IN JEOPARDY, AS WELL, FROM THIS FELON. I
HOPE HE HAS A CONSCIENCE AND PUTS WHAT HE
STOLE BACK, NO QUESTIONS ASKED. NO ONE HAS
GOOD LUCK IN LIFE STEALING FROM OTHERS.

WE FELLOW BOW HUNTERS NEED TO STICK BY AND UP
FOR EACH OTHER. WE DON'T NEED OR WANT
UNETHICAL THIEVES IN OUR RANKS. THEY DIMINISH
US ALL. IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION ABOUT
THIS THIEF, PLEASE CALL ME CONFIDENTIALLY AT
XXX-XXX-XXXX. GOOD LUCK TO YOU ALL AND GOOD
HUNTING.

As I finished reading, the mechanical engine noise from behind me began to grow very loud and intense. "Man," I said to myself. "It's the felon, I'm about to be mugged and murdered." I hastened my pace forward and even thought about running. I again began wishing the bulging wallet in my backpocket was a blade instead.

Suddenly, I glanced behind me and saw the outline of a biker top the hill, riding what looked to be at least a 200cc dirt bike. I stepped off the trail and onto the grass, pumping my fist in the air as he whizzed by. No chainsaw. I was relieved and felt like a child at my fear of being mugged. However, I was still keeping my eyes peeled for hunters.

I passed on my left a small, dilapidated red building with evidence of fires, break-ins and other human activity. I was tempted to check the place out and approached the building, but soon stopped and listened silently for any noise or movement. There were strange vibrations all around me; I felt like I was being watched. I knew it wasn't quite the time to investigate the building, so I backed off and resumed my walk on the trail.

OAK STREET AND A FRIENDLY LIFT

I eventually spotted a cross of power wires in the sky and Oak Street popped up ahead as I topped the hill. I heard the dirtbike rider in the distance and followed his tracks out onto the road. It would only be a fifteen minute walk to Route 9, passing by Beverly Hill Drive on my right and staying clear of the abrupt traffic on this narrow road.

As I topped the hill, I began approaching Dennis Molinari Insurance. I called Dennis, and he confirmed that he was there, at the office. The sun was just heading over the horizon, so I figured I'd take a ride home from there if Dennis was willing.

It turned out he was just about to leave, so we prepared to head out. I showed him the letter I had found and he was quite amazed. Driving up Route 9 we passed by some of the areas I'd walked in.

As we topped the hill on Route 9 to take the left on Lake Street, I told Dennis about the yard sale I had seen the forest green bike at. I remarked to him that I'd wished I had bought it.

"Ha, that's funny; a walker buys a bike. Classic." He replied.

Sure it's funny. But I couldn't buy that bike. There is no Art of Biking. There is only the Art of Walking, and never shall it end!