From 9642b35ec55a246c8cd10c63f574861f4b55ec17 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: Case Duckworth Date: Wed, 28 Jan 2015 22:37:19 -0700 Subject: Create README.html and link from index --- 03-howtoread.txt | 148 +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 3-howtoread.txt | 148 ------------------------------------------------------- README.html | 17 +++++++ index.html | 6 ++- 4 files changed, 170 insertions(+), 149 deletions(-) create mode 100644 03-howtoread.txt delete mode 100644 3-howtoread.txt create mode 100644 README.html diff --git a/03-howtoread.txt b/03-howtoread.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4345442 --- /dev/null +++ b/03-howtoread.txt @@ -0,0 +1,148 @@ +--- +title: 'How to read this' +project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' +... + +This book is an exploration of life, of all possible lives that could be +lived. Each of the poems contained herein have been written by a +different person, with his own history, culture, and emotions. True, +they are all related, but no more than any of us is related through our +genetics, our shared planet, or our yearnings. + +Fernando Pessoa wrote poems under four different identities---he called +them *heteronyms*---that were known during his lifetime, though after his +death over sixty have been found and catalogued. He called them +heteronyms as opposed to pseudonyms because they were much more than +names he wrote under. They were truly different writing selves, +concerned with different ideas and writing with different styles: +Alberto Caeiro wrote pastorals; Ricardo Reis wrote more formal odes; +Álvaro de Campos wrote these long, Whitman-esque pieces (one to Whitman +himself); and Pessoa's own name was used for poems that are kind of +similar to all the others. It seems as though Pessoa found it +inefficient to try and write everything he wanted only in his own self; +rather he parceled out the different pieces and developed them into full +identities, at the cost of his own: "I subsist as a kind of medium of +myself, but I'm less real than the others, less substantial, less +personal, and easily influenced by them all." de Campos said of him at +one point, "Fernando Pessoa, strictly speaking, doesn't exist." + +It's not just Pessoa---I, strictly speaking, don't exist, both as the +specific me that writes this now and as the concept of selfhood, the +ego. Heraclitus famously said that we can't step into the same river +twice, and the fact of the matter is that we can't occupy the same self +twice. It's constantly changing and adapting to new stimuli from the +environment, from other selves, from inside itself, and each time it +forms anew into something that's never existed before. The person I am +beginning a poem is a separate being than the one I am finishing a poem, +and part of it is the poem I've written has brought forth some other +dish onto the great table that is myself. + +In the same way, with each poem you read of this, you too could become a +different person. Depending on which order you read them in, you could +be any number of possible people. If you follow the threads I've laid +out for you, there are so many possible selves; if you disregard those +and go a different way there are quite a few more. However, at the end +of the journey there is only one self that you will occupy, the others +disappearing from this universe and going maybe somewhere else, maybe +nowhere at all. + +There is a scene in *The Neverending Story* where Bastian is trying to +find his way out of the desert. He opens a door and finds himself in the +Temple of a Thousand Doors, which is never seen from the outside but +only once someone enters it. It is a series of rooms with six sides each +and three doors: one from the room before and two choices. In life, each +of these rooms is a moment, but where Bastian can choose which of only +two doors to enter each time, in life there can be any number of doors +and we don't always choose which to go through---in fact, I would argue +that most of the time we aren't allowed the luxury. + +What happens to those other doors, those other possibilities? Is there +some other version of the self that for whatever complexities of +circumstance and will chose a different door at an earlier moment? The +answer to this, of course, is that we can never know for sure, though +this doesn't keep us from trying through the process of regret. We go +back and try that other door in our mind, extrapolating a possible +present from our own past. This is ultimately unsatisfying, not only +because whatever world is imagined is not the one currently lived, but +because it becomes obvious that the alternate model of reality is not +complete: we can only extrapolate from the original room, absolutely +without knowledge of any subsequent possible choices. This causes a deep +disappointment, a frustration with the inability to know all possible +timelines (coupled with the insecurity that this may not be the best of +all possible worlds) that we feel as regret. + +In this way, every moment we live is an elegy to every possible future +that might have stemmed from it. Annie Dillard states this in a +biological manner when she says in *Pilgrim at Tinker Creek*, "Every +glistening egg is a memento mori." Nature is inefficient---it spends a +hundred lifetimes to get one that barely works. The fossil record is +littered with the failed experiments of evolution, many of which failed +due only to blind chance: an asteroid, a shift in weather patterns, an +inefficient copulation method. Each living person today has twenty dead +standing behind him, and that only counts the people that actually +lived. How many missed opportunities stand behind any of us? + +The real problem with all of this is that time is only additive. There's +no way to dial it back and start over, with new choices or new +environments. Even when given the chance to do something again, we do it +*again*, with the reality given by our previous action. Thus we are +constantly creating and being created by the world. The self is never +the same from one moment to the next. + +A poem is like a snapshot of a self. If it's any good, it captures the +emotional core of the self at the time of writing for communication with +future selves, either within the same person or outside of it. Thus +revision is possible, and the new poem created will be yet another +snapshot of the future self as changed by the original poem. The page +becomes a window into the past, a particular past as experienced by one +self. The poem is a remembering of a self that no longer exists, in +other words, an elegy. + +A snapshot doesn't capture the entire subject, however. It leaves out +the background as it's obscured by foreground objects; it fails to +include anything that isn't contained in its finite frame. In order to +build a working definition of identity, we must include all possible +selves over all possible timelines, combined into one person: identity +is the combined effect of all possible selves over time. A poem leaves +much of this out: it is the one person standing in front of twenty +ghosts. + +A poem is the place where the selves of the reader and the speaker meet, +in their respective times and places. In this way a poem is outside of +time or place, because it changes its location each time it's read. Each +time it's two different people meeting. The problem with a poem is that +it's such a small window---if we met in real life the way we met in poems, +we would see nothing of anyone else but a square the size of a postage +stamp. It has been argued this is the way we see time and ourselves in +it, as well: Vonnegut uses the metaphor of a subject strapped to a +railroad car moving at a set pace, with a six-foot-long metal tube +placed in front of the subject's eye; the landscape in the distance is +time, and what we see is the only way in which we interact with it. It's +the same with a poem and the self: we can only see and interact with a +small kernel. This is why it's possible to write more than one poem. + +Due to this kernel nature of poetry, a good poem should focus itself to +extract as much meaning as possible from that one kernel of identity to +which it has access. It should be an atom of selfhood, irreducible and +resistant to paraphrase, because it tries to somehow echo the large +unsayable part of identity outside the frame of the self. It is the +kernel that contains a universe, or that speaks around one that's +hidden; if it's a successful poem then it makes the smallest circuit +possible. This is why the commentary on poems is so voluminous: a poem +is tightly packed meaning that commentators try to unpack to get at that +universality inside it. A fortress of dialectic is constructed that +ultimately obstructs the meaning behind the poem; it becomes the +foreground in the photograph that disallows us to view the horizon +beyond it. + +With this in mind, I collect these poems that were written over a period +of four years into this book. Where I can, I insert cross-references +(like the one above, in the margin) to other pieces in the text where I +think the two resonate in some way. You can read this book in any way +you'd like: you can go front-to-back, or back-to-front, or you can +follow the arrows around, or you can work out a complex mathematical +formula with Merseinne primes and logarithms and the 2000 Census +information, or you can go completely randomly through like a magazine, +or at least the way I flip through magazines. I think writing is a +communication of the self, and I think this is the best way to +communicate mine in all its multiversity. diff --git a/3-howtoread.txt b/3-howtoread.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 4345442..0000000 --- a/3-howtoread.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,148 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: 'How to read this' -project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' -... - -This book is an exploration of life, of all possible lives that could be -lived. Each of the poems contained herein have been written by a -different person, with his own history, culture, and emotions. True, -they are all related, but no more than any of us is related through our -genetics, our shared planet, or our yearnings. - -Fernando Pessoa wrote poems under four different identities---he called -them *heteronyms*---that were known during his lifetime, though after his -death over sixty have been found and catalogued. He called them -heteronyms as opposed to pseudonyms because they were much more than -names he wrote under. They were truly different writing selves, -concerned with different ideas and writing with different styles: -Alberto Caeiro wrote pastorals; Ricardo Reis wrote more formal odes; -Álvaro de Campos wrote these long, Whitman-esque pieces (one to Whitman -himself); and Pessoa's own name was used for poems that are kind of -similar to all the others. It seems as though Pessoa found it -inefficient to try and write everything he wanted only in his own self; -rather he parceled out the different pieces and developed them into full -identities, at the cost of his own: "I subsist as a kind of medium of -myself, but I'm less real than the others, less substantial, less -personal, and easily influenced by them all." de Campos said of him at -one point, "Fernando Pessoa, strictly speaking, doesn't exist." - -It's not just Pessoa---I, strictly speaking, don't exist, both as the -specific me that writes this now and as the concept of selfhood, the -ego. Heraclitus famously said that we can't step into the same river -twice, and the fact of the matter is that we can't occupy the same self -twice. It's constantly changing and adapting to new stimuli from the -environment, from other selves, from inside itself, and each time it -forms anew into something that's never existed before. The person I am -beginning a poem is a separate being than the one I am finishing a poem, -and part of it is the poem I've written has brought forth some other -dish onto the great table that is myself. - -In the same way, with each poem you read of this, you too could become a -different person. Depending on which order you read them in, you could -be any number of possible people. If you follow the threads I've laid -out for you, there are so many possible selves; if you disregard those -and go a different way there are quite a few more. However, at the end -of the journey there is only one self that you will occupy, the others -disappearing from this universe and going maybe somewhere else, maybe -nowhere at all. - -There is a scene in *The Neverending Story* where Bastian is trying to -find his way out of the desert. He opens a door and finds himself in the -Temple of a Thousand Doors, which is never seen from the outside but -only once someone enters it. It is a series of rooms with six sides each -and three doors: one from the room before and two choices. In life, each -of these rooms is a moment, but where Bastian can choose which of only -two doors to enter each time, in life there can be any number of doors -and we don't always choose which to go through---in fact, I would argue -that most of the time we aren't allowed the luxury. - -What happens to those other doors, those other possibilities? Is there -some other version of the self that for whatever complexities of -circumstance and will chose a different door at an earlier moment? The -answer to this, of course, is that we can never know for sure, though -this doesn't keep us from trying through the process of regret. We go -back and try that other door in our mind, extrapolating a possible -present from our own past. This is ultimately unsatisfying, not only -because whatever world is imagined is not the one currently lived, but -because it becomes obvious that the alternate model of reality is not -complete: we can only extrapolate from the original room, absolutely -without knowledge of any subsequent possible choices. This causes a deep -disappointment, a frustration with the inability to know all possible -timelines (coupled with the insecurity that this may not be the best of -all possible worlds) that we feel as regret. - -In this way, every moment we live is an elegy to every possible future -that might have stemmed from it. Annie Dillard states this in a -biological manner when she says in *Pilgrim at Tinker Creek*, "Every -glistening egg is a memento mori." Nature is inefficient---it spends a -hundred lifetimes to get one that barely works. The fossil record is -littered with the failed experiments of evolution, many of which failed -due only to blind chance: an asteroid, a shift in weather patterns, an -inefficient copulation method. Each living person today has twenty dead -standing behind him, and that only counts the people that actually -lived. How many missed opportunities stand behind any of us? - -The real problem with all of this is that time is only additive. There's -no way to dial it back and start over, with new choices or new -environments. Even when given the chance to do something again, we do it -*again*, with the reality given by our previous action. Thus we are -constantly creating and being created by the world. The self is never -the same from one moment to the next. - -A poem is like a snapshot of a self. If it's any good, it captures the -emotional core of the self at the time of writing for communication with -future selves, either within the same person or outside of it. Thus -revision is possible, and the new poem created will be yet another -snapshot of the future self as changed by the original poem. The page -becomes a window into the past, a particular past as experienced by one -self. The poem is a remembering of a self that no longer exists, in -other words, an elegy. - -A snapshot doesn't capture the entire subject, however. It leaves out -the background as it's obscured by foreground objects; it fails to -include anything that isn't contained in its finite frame. In order to -build a working definition of identity, we must include all possible -selves over all possible timelines, combined into one person: identity -is the combined effect of all possible selves over time. A poem leaves -much of this out: it is the one person standing in front of twenty -ghosts. - -A poem is the place where the selves of the reader and the speaker meet, -in their respective times and places. In this way a poem is outside of -time or place, because it changes its location each time it's read. Each -time it's two different people meeting. The problem with a poem is that -it's such a small window---if we met in real life the way we met in poems, -we would see nothing of anyone else but a square the size of a postage -stamp. It has been argued this is the way we see time and ourselves in -it, as well: Vonnegut uses the metaphor of a subject strapped to a -railroad car moving at a set pace, with a six-foot-long metal tube -placed in front of the subject's eye; the landscape in the distance is -time, and what we see is the only way in which we interact with it. It's -the same with a poem and the self: we can only see and interact with a -small kernel. This is why it's possible to write more than one poem. - -Due to this kernel nature of poetry, a good poem should focus itself to -extract as much meaning as possible from that one kernel of identity to -which it has access. It should be an atom of selfhood, irreducible and -resistant to paraphrase, because it tries to somehow echo the large -unsayable part of identity outside the frame of the self. It is the -kernel that contains a universe, or that speaks around one that's -hidden; if it's a successful poem then it makes the smallest circuit -possible. This is why the commentary on poems is so voluminous: a poem -is tightly packed meaning that commentators try to unpack to get at that -universality inside it. A fortress of dialectic is constructed that -ultimately obstructs the meaning behind the poem; it becomes the -foreground in the photograph that disallows us to view the horizon -beyond it. - -With this in mind, I collect these poems that were written over a period -of four years into this book. Where I can, I insert cross-references -(like the one above, in the margin) to other pieces in the text where I -think the two resonate in some way. You can read this book in any way -you'd like: you can go front-to-back, or back-to-front, or you can -follow the arrows around, or you can work out a complex mathematical -formula with Merseinne primes and logarithms and the 2000 Census -information, or you can go completely randomly through like a magazine, -or at least the way I flip through magazines. I think writing is a -communication of the self, and I think this is the best way to -communicate mine in all its multiversity. diff --git a/README.html b/README.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4c6eaac --- /dev/null +++ b/README.html @@ -0,0 +1,17 @@ +

Autocento of the breakfast table

+

User guide and manual

+

or whatever. I don't care.

+

Part I: in which our hero explains the goal

+

The goal in this book, Autocento of the breakfast table, is to explore the workings of revision and recursion through words, both in the head and on paper. It's a hypertextual imagining of how things could have been, in all of their possibilities.

+

Part II: Enough of that high-faluting bullshit; down to brass tax

+

A.K.A. Using Pandoc to compile them pages, neff

+

This project uses John MacFarlane's amazing, etc. pandoc for the fun, HTML-writing stuff. Use the compile.sh script to compile the stuff down.

+

Note: you're on Windows right now, so make sure and type bash compile.sh to run the program.

+

At the top of each file, there should be a YAML block that looks something like this:

+
---
+title: 'Title of poem or whatever'
+subtitle: 'Subtitle, if it exists'
+epigraph: 'Include epigraph here, if it exists'
+epigraph-credit: 'Who said the epigraph or wrote it or whatever'
+project: 'Original project here'
+...
diff --git a/index.html b/index.html index 8894c17..9b86bb1 100644 --- a/index.html +++ b/index.html @@ -5,5 +5,9 @@

Autocento of the Breakfast Table

A Master's thesis by Case Duckworth

-

Content goes here, natch.

+

+ Content goes here, natch. + For example, the README of the whatever is + here. +

-- cgit 1.4.1-21-gabe81