Tuesday 10 July 2018

POEM: SOLACE

Solace
When stone paths and tree rings,
and bones cast about dark fissures
form the signs and distant signals;
when information flows
like lava spills to the sea,
and calls to errant gods
are carried on yesterday’s wind,
it’s then that whispers
or a glance
may sometimes
suffice.


I ALWAYS KIND OF LIKED THIS ONE. It’s fairly old—early aughts I guess, during the Rise of the InterNet. We’ve all seen that movie, and we’d be bored out of our gourds with it by now, except our brains have mostly turned to mush with all the dazzling digital delights coming out of this soon-to-pass—what? Lifestyle? Service? Porn delivery system? So, I guess I was thinking, in part, about all the signals we receive—from our machines, from nature, from other people, from our imaginations and from god, and how we send and receive information.
     I’m not quite sure what I mean by ‘information’. Do I mean knowledge, facts, truths? I think I focus on signals other than simply ‘raw data’: that mass of unfocused sensory ‘uploads’ we then filter through our brains and somehow bring order and understanding to it all. I do focus on the human-to-human transmission of whatever it is we “signal” to each other, and, obviously, I was thinking of the ancientness of such an activity—from parsing the entrails of birds (or people!) to the latest app (though I don’t use references to modern technology).
     I’m suggesting caution is needed when receiving “information” because the volume of it can overwhelm us if we’re not careful. I like the image of information flowing like “lava” to the sea (where all that heated text or whatever meets the water in an explosive and spectacular manner). The image suggests the potential danger of information that, at times, can be wild and out of our control. Another cooler image is one of prayers or supplications we send to our absent or delinquent deities (“errant gods”), that have been offered in the past (“yesterday’s winds”) without reply.
     Maybe the thought here is that whatever technology we use to transmit our feelings, hopes, fears, life lessons—whatever—can be flawed or inadequate or eventually outdated. I’m sure future archaeologists a couple thousand years from now will be scratching their heads and wondering what a com-putt-er was. (I think some of us today are beginning to ask the same question.) And I think technology, here, includes the social norms, customs, practices, etc. that humans have developed over millennia to communicate with each other.
     In the deafening din of today’s fast-paced world, with all our platforms of communication and information transmission, we may find it necessary to return to the more intimate and personal forms of communication—for clarity’s sake, if not for our sanity. That’s what I mean by “whispers or a glance”. Pretty simple, really. Grok?
    
I’m reminded of George Lucas’s 1971 debut film THX 1138*. Set in a future dystopia in an underground city, all the inhabitants are controlled and monitored by central authorities. Cameras are everywhere and everyone watches for those who stray from accepted norms. Two people, (one, a very young Robert Duvall) fall in love and have unauthorized sex. In my mind, I have the image of the two of them, fearful and alone in Duvall’s tiny room, their heads close together, communicating silently through touch and eyes and whispers. 
In the end it comes down to people and what they share and how they share with each other. It's ultimately for them to decide. (Make that for us to decide.)


 
*Besides being a whacky and totally fun flick to watch, there is an early version of internet porn that is used by the inhabitants in the film. Check it out, man. It's cool! The title refers to the tattoo worn by everyone--they have no names, only numbers. And I couldn't resist putting in a pic of the movie's final scene where, alone, his lover killed and 'recycled' by the authorities, Duvall escapes the underground city, and steps for the first time above ground. His future is problematic of course, but then again, so is all of ours. 



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