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Gödel, Escher, Bach V

I’m working my way, day by day, through the Pulitzer Prize-winning classic, "Gödel, Escher, Bach"; it’s one of the seminal books on the search for the "I" within us, and a prodigious work (pray for me). You can find earlier entries below, or collected at right.

By Dale Conour

How human can a machine ever be? How machine-like are we? Author Douglas Hofstadter winds up GEB’s "Introduction: A Musico-Logical Offering" with a few thoughts about Artificial Intelligence, and its intrinsic paradox:

"Computers by their very nature are the most inflexible, desireless, rule-following of beasts. Fast thought they may be, they are nonetheless the epitome of unconsciousness. How, then, can intelligent behavior be programmed? Isn't this the most blatant of contradictions in terms? One of the major theses of this book is to urge each reader to confront the apparent contradiction head on, to savor it, to turn it over, to take it apart, to wallow in it, so that in the end the reader might emerge with new insights into the seemingly unbreachable gulf between the formal and the informal, the animate and the inanimate, the flexible and the inflexible."

Indeed, Hofstadter notes that even so forward a thinker as Lady Ada Lovelace (daughter of Lord Byron), who predicted back in the 19th century that Charles Babbage’s "Analytical Engine"  (shown here) if/when built and running (which never happened), could potentially produce complex music compositions and graphics, couldn’t imagine it originating anything, only performing as ordered. (The woman, by the way, sounds fascinating; follow the link below to learn more about her.)

Referring again to the genius of J.S. Bach, Hofstadter quotes from theologian Johann Michael Schmidt, who, in  1754, four years after the death of the composer, made his case against those equating men to machines (and vice versa):

"No one has yet invented an image that thinks, or wills, or composes, or even does anything at all similar. Let anyone who wishes to be convinced look carefully at the last fugal work of...Bach...and let him observe the art that is contained therein; or what must strike him as even more wonderful, the Chorale which he dictated in his blindness to the pen of another: Wenn wir in höchsten Nöthen seyn...Everything that the champions of Materialism put forward must fall to the ground in view of this single example."

As Hofstadter points out, it’s been 200 years and this particular battle still goes on: "I hope in this book to give some perspective on the battle." He does this by weaving an "Eternal Golden Braid" out these three strands we’ve discussed so far: Gödel, Escher, Bach.

Next: Tortoise, Achilles, and MU.

Links: More on Ada Byron, Lady Lovelace

Let’s stay in touch.

Gödel, Escher, Bach IV

I’m working my way, day by day, through the Pulitzer Prize-winning classic, "Gödel, Escher, Bach"; it’s one of the seminal books on the search for the "I" within us, and a prodigious work (pray for me). You can find earlier entries below, or collected at right.

By Dale Conour

And now comes the math. Math and I have had a very unsatisfying relationship for a very long time. I appreciate math,  and I respect it, I really, really do. But math, I’m just not into you.

My problem with math has historically fallen into two general areas. One, a lot of mathematics has always seemed to exist in some self-referential world that has nothing to do with the world I live in. Two, I don’t like questions with only one right answer. No "perfect" system for me, thanks, I’ll take some relativity.

So as I struggle through this next section of Hofstadter’s introduction covering the great German mathematician Kurt Gödel and his role in the author’s theory of consciousness, it’s a bit ironic to learn that Gödel’s contribution was to endow mathematics with the power of self-reference, introducing what became known as Gödel’s Incompleteness Theorem.

The Theorem proved that statements of number theory can be true even if they can’t be proven within a given "fixed system of number-theoretical reasoning," that provability can fall short of truth, and did so by implanting our new best friend the "Strange Loop" within such a system.

The actual Theorem, unless you are a math god, will not make sense. (And if you are a math god, help me with all this, and stop sitting there chuckling derisively.) Even the Theorem as paraphrased in English by Hofstadter takes awhile to get. But basically what Gödel did was convert a self-referential statement in language, the Epimenides paradox

"This statement is false"

...into a self-referential mathematical statement (no one had even considered doing this, let alone attempted it) that created a paradox within a system (Principia Mathematica) constructed some 30 years before precisely to vanquish paradoxes and buttress the foundation of logic and its Siamese twin, mathematics.

Gödel cracked open the foundation to expose a truer one, and rocked the world. He helped usher in a new era in mathematics (as well as logic and philosophy) that actually helped us further understand the real world and how it works, ultimately leading to concepts such as quantum mechanics and...relativity.

Okay, Math, maybe I’ve been wrong about you. And since you and I are going to be together for the next 743 pages, I guess we'll just have to learn how to get along.

Next: Babbage, Computers, Artificial intelligence, the "Golden Braid"...and then we really get going

Let’s stay in touch.

Gödel, Escher, Bach III

I’m working my way, day by day, through the Pulitzer Prize-winning classic, "Gödel, Escher, Bach"; it’s one of the seminal books on the search for the "I" within us, and a prodigious work (pray for me). You can find earlier entries below, or collected at right.

By Dale Conour

The Strange Loops return in the second section of Hofstadter’s "Introduction: A Musico-Logical Offering," only this time it’s an artistic representation of them rather than a musical one. And our champion now is the great graphic artist M.C. Escher (1902-1972)—the guy who drew all those mind-blowing, physics-defying, mathematics-loving illustrations, like "Waterfall" shown here.

You look at it and think, "Hmmm—waterfall cascading to waterwheel within a building, and circling around again, okay, cool I guess." But then you look closer and realize the water is not really rising up as it courses along the channel..but it is.

But it isn’t. At least it ends up at the top again. Somehow. Whoa.

Waterfall, Hofstadter points out, is a six-step endlessly falling loop just like Bach’s "Canon per Tonos" that I wrote about last time. "The similarity of vision is remarkable. Bach and Escher are playing one single theme in two different "keys": music and art." The author goes on to talk about Escher’s various treatments of Strange Loops in his works, and how he varies from tighter loops to looser ones.

More interesting at this point is his explanation that, "Implicit in the concept of Strange Loops is the concept of infinity, since what else is a loop but a way of representing an endless process in an finite way?" And infinity plays a large part in Escher’s work:

"In some of his drawings, one single theme can appear on different levels of reality. For instance, one level in a drawing might clearly be recognizable as representing fantasy or imagination; another level would be recognizable as reality. The two levels might be the only explicitly portrayed levels. But the mere presence of these two levels invites the viewer to look upon himself as part of yet another level; and by taking that step, the viewer cannot help getting caught up in Escher’s implied chain of levels, in which, for any one level, there is always another level above it of greater "reality", and likewise, there is always a level below, "more imaginary" than it is. This can be mind-boggling in itself. However, what happens if the chain of levels is not linear, but forms a loop? What is real, then, and what is fantasy? The genius of Escher was that he could not only concoct, but actually portray, dozens of half-real, half-mythical worlds, worlds filled with Strange Loops, which he seems to be inviting his viewers to enter."

And to think we’re only getting started.

Next: Our first look at Gödel.

Let’s stay in touch.

Gödel, Escher, Bach II

I’m working my way, day by day, through the Pulitzer Prize-winning classic, "Gödel, Escher, Bach"; it’s one of the seminal books on the search for the "I" within us, and a prodigious work (pray for me). You can find earlier entries below, or collected at right.

By Dale Conour

My first foray into GEB has rewarded me already: I have a much deeper respect for "Row, Row, Row Your Boat."

Hofstadter begins the book by relating how J.S. Bach came to write a now-mythic set of canons for Frederick the Great, King of Prussia, known as the "Musical Offering." In so doing, he reminded me (who must now embarrassingly admit that I started out college as a music major), what a canon is.

A canon is a theme played against itself. You start to sing "Row, Row" and then after a few beats, a new voice begins the tune. The trick in writing even so simple a tune as Row or "Three Blind Mice," of course, is that it has to sound good when played against itself.

And from there, there are ever more complex variations—voices performing the theme in higher notes, at faster or slower speeds. The theme must sound good alone, or in harmony with itself, and more.

I am reading this, and thinking, well, okay, I’m learning about Frederick (and imagining what the world would be like today if more leaders combined the modern belief that prisoners shouldn’t be gutted in public squares with the old school love of the arts) and Bach, and the secret genius behind "Row, row, row your boat," and that’s all good, and I’m sure the context for this is coming, when Hofstadter points out:

"Thus, each note in a canon has more than one musical meaning: the listener’s ear and brain automatically figure out the appropriate meaning, by referring to context."

And suddenly a small door opens in my brain. A little fresh air blows through. Something’s coming.

"Notice that every type of "copy" preserves all the information in the original theme, in the sense that the theme is fully recoverable from any of the copies. Such an information-preserving transformation is often called an isomorphism, and we will have much traffic with isomorphisms in this book."

To end this first dip into Bach, Hofstadter refers to one canon in Musical Offering, "Canon per Tonos" as the "Endlessly Rising Canon." Bach managed to compose a piece in C minor that not only seamlessly ends a key higher in D minor, but allows the performer to then repeat the canon in D minor and move up to the key of E and so on, ad infinitum.

"In this canon, Bach has given us our first example of the notion of Strange Loops. The "Strange Loop" phenomenon occurs whenever, by moving upwards (or downwards) through the levels of some hierarchical system, we unexpectedly find ourselves right back where we started.."

Next: A first look at Escher

Let’s stay in touch.

Gödel, Escher, Bach I

By Dale Conour

I can’t resist books that promise a glimpse at the big picture, that connect the dots.

Some 20 or so years ago, a book came out that relatively few people took on and understood completely, but enough did for it to win the Pulitzer prize.

The book was called Gödel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid, and when I recently came upon a 20th-anniversary edition of it in Bell bookstore in Palo Alto, California, it was like unearthing some ancient lost talisman.  It was the second time I’d just chanced upon this book. Many years ago now, during one of my hours-long hauntings of a local bookstore, I’d discovered it. I hefted the heavy book, studied the covers and flaps, and just knew there were answers in there for questions I hadn’t even thought of asking yet. But I also innately understood it was way over my head. I wasn’t ready for it. I’m probably still not, but what the hell, right?

GEB is one man’s search for the origin of our consciousness, answering the question many are still searching for today, as if his book never existed. Where, within the brain, in the midst of all the electrical activity, neurons firing, synapses made, does the "I" come from?

As many seem to think, some mysterious, magical as yet undiscovered place deep within the brain? Writes author Douglas R. Hofstadter (who I’m in complete awe of):

"As I see it, the only way of overcoming this magical view of what "I" and consciousness are is to keep on reminding oneself, unpleasant though it may seem, that the "teetering bulb of dread and dream" that nestles safely inside one’s own cranium is a purely physical object made up of completely sterile and inanimate components, all of which obey exactly the same as those that govern all the rest of the universe, such as pieces of text, or CD-ROM’s, or computers. Only if one keeps on bashing up against this disturbing fact can one only slowly begin to develop a feel for the way out of the mystery of consciousness: that the key is not the stuff out of which brains are made, but the patterns that can come to exist inside the stuff of a brain."

Hoftstadter’s talking about self-referencing loops, crazy weird loops, for me the most effective metaphors being training a video cam on a mirror and the resultant endless images of the camera filming a camera filming a camera or the famed Escher lithograph of the hands drawing themselves.

Here’s the goal. I’m going to make my way through Gödel, Escher, Bach, and every day I’m going summarize what I glean from it or how I'm confused by it; I’m going to preserve my thoughts about it here. If anyone out there has read it, loved it or hated it, I’d love to hear from you.

Wish me luck: I’m going in.

Links: Gödel, Escher, Bach, from Books Inc

Let’s stay in touch.

Watching the wheels

By Dale Conour

Most days so many things pass me by and I don’t take note. Flowers nod, trees wave, clouds push through the sky overhead and I don’t know the names of any of them when I should be greeting each in turn. And sure, I know Lao Tzu or somebody said if you know the names of a hundred flowers you don’t know a single flower, and I get that, but I think recalling names can be a trigger for awareness. A little acknowledgment.

Photography by Steve Berliner

Take last weekend. Hiking in San Pedro Valley County Park, Pacifica. That’s a big manzanita, not a small madrone, ’cause the leaves are so different, smaller, more compact, dealing with a lot of sun and heat here on the high south slope of the hill. We’re hiking through chaparral. Not just a bird, but a hummingbird. Not just a hummingbird but an Allen’s hummingbird. Not just an Allen’s hummingbird, but a male Allen’s performing the annual mating ritual: zoom high in the air, pause, rocket down and pop up, displaying scarlet throat feathers in the sunlight to the nearby female, perched in the coyote bush. She flies away, unimpressed I guess. Coyote bush or brush? Can’t remember, not that important, but at least there I was paying attention to life going about its business around me, and feeling a little more

connected to it. So here I am now, upstairs in the Cafe del Dogge, the hot barista churning out cappuccinos below. I’m tapping my foot along to a song. Wait, what am I listening to? Really listen to it: Wow, mashup of Modern English’s "I’ll melt with you" and the Who’s "You better , you bet" and a little of Lennon’s "Watching the wheels." What are the lyrics to these songs really? How often do I really really try to comprehend songs? Too late, song's almost over, but geez, listen to stuff every once in awhile will you?

And now that I’m clueing in a little, I’m noticing the scent of those tangerine peels mingling with the lingering aroma of the chocolate croissant I had has formed a pretty darned wonderful cloud of fragrance around me, no? Let’s just savor that a second or two....

If we don’t mind the little stuff, soon there’s no tangibility to the big stuff, right? And then we’re just floating through life. But more than ever, we need to be tuned into the big picture. Hey, now Mika’s playing: Relax (take it easy) is the song, but I can’t catch all the lyrics because he’s singing in the vocal register of a porpoise. But I’m going to look them up.

Doing it probably won’t save the world, but it’s a start.

Let’s stay in touch.

One-Mile Island finale

Living what's a dream for many of us, graphic designer Nik Schulz checked out and headed for a remote island, St. Agnes, in the north Atlantic. This is the last in a series of 17 excerpts that have run every other day. You can find previous excerpts through the link at right (or by scrolling down).

By Nik Schulz

Excerpt 17
---01.01.2000---

Even minutes before midnight, I doubted the clocks unstoppable march. Would they really manage to make it to 2000? Would that last passing second really have the strength to roll over all those zeros? Incredibly, it did and we found ourselves drunkenly stumbling into yet another 1000 years.

New Year’s Eve on St. Agnes was to be celebrated with a “fancy dress” party (which is fancy English for “costume party”) at a deconsecrated church known as the Island Hall. By late afternoon I was still trying to get a costume together but coming up short. In deciding what to bring for a six-month stint on a remote island, I hadn’t figured on needing a costume. Show’s how much I know... I ended up improvising, finding some wire-framed sunglasses, a skin-tight, striped, blue and purple shirt paired with white overalls, recovered from the wreck of the cargo ship, Cita (which, I’m told, littered the islands with overalls when it crashed on local rocks a couple of years ago). I then blow-dried my as-yet-uncut-on-English-soil hair into an afro of gigantic proportions. This ensemble I somewhat convincingly passed off as 60s-era, art scene-chic.

To start off the evening, Ellen and Bryce had kindly invited me to join them and their friends for dinner.

For costumes, they had decided to all dress like their ancestors. While I knew this, I wasn’t prepared for the moment I walked into the sitting room and saw Mia sitting there in strappy, low-cut, vaguely Egyptian shift, wearing a black, onyx necklace fanned out from pronounced clavicle to pronounced clavicle. False eyelashes, a long, platinum-white wig and a tiny, butterfly tattoo, probably taken from a child’s sticker book and sparkling below the corner of her left eye, only added to her otherworldly appeal. She was so gorgeous, I almost stopped breathing. After a moment I recovered and spent the whole dinner trying to figure out how to spend as much time with her as possible over the coming week. The only thing that distracted me was the fact that Ellen and Bryce had prepared a fantastically delicious meal of local beef, sea spinach mouse and potatoes, alongside unspeakably good crepes topped with salmon, creme fresh and caviar, all accompanied by an astounding 10-year-old champagne, one bottle of which they uncork at every significant milestone in their lives.

At some point this fine dinner among friends degenerated into a raucous, champagne-fueled sing-a-long as we charged, at top volume, through the musical standards of our generation. It was, without a doubt, the most fun I’ve ever had exiting a year.

We ate, we sang, we ate some more and slowly made our way down to the Island Hall. It had been decorated to ring in the New Year and shined like a beacon at the far end of the island. Inside, the tinfoil stars and dark sailcloth sky, the snowy white and frosty blue windows, white plaster walls and wide-planked floor gave the impression of a high school theater set. “2000” was spelled out over the door in Christmas lights, rendering the date in home-town proportions. It looked lovely and they had done a marvelous job decking it out for the occasion. As we arrived, we saw that the revelers were already in full swing, so we got drinks and stood outside.

I found Mia and struck up a conversation. After few minutes her mouth formed the bullet, “My boyfriend blah, blah, blah...” I wasn’t sure if she realized she’d been carrying a rifle, or was even aware that it had gone off, but the words left her lips like a gunshot. Wits not yet dulled by the champagne, I dove out of the way hoping to avoid the little missile as it flew past. Too late. As I got up and brushed myself off, still in mid conversation, I knew I’d been hit. The flash of her words erased from my memory everything else that she said the entire evening. All I can remember is her platinum hair, demur smile and the most perfect fireworks display I’ve ever seen, as a group of men lined up to launch expired ship’s flares at the stroke of midnight. They rocketed into the air and exploded, floating in the near sky like weightless lanterns, illuminating us in the misty-wet night, as we huddled together behind a little round hill, glowing in front of the Island Hall.

Let’s stay in touch.

One-Mile Island #16

Living what's a dream for many of us, graphic designer Nik Schulz checked out and headed for a remote island, St. Agnes, in the north Atlantic. You can find previous excerpts through the link at right (or by scrolling down).

By Nik Schulz

Excerpt 16
---12.30---
Even before I left for Christmas, intuition told me that pilgrims coming to St. Agnes for New Year would bring

with them a young woman, whom I would find undeniably beautiful. Providence, always looking out for me, ensured that she would be among the group of friends staying with Ellen and Bryce across the way.

This afternoon, Jack, his brother, his brother’s wife (who were also here for New Year) and I, went out for a walk and ran into more friends of friends, all here for the coming celebration. On our way home, the four of us went over to Ellen and Bryce’s to say hello. We saw Ellen through the window of one of the guest rooms, relaxing on a bed with two other women, slumber-party-style. She smiled and came to meet us at the side door. After a round of hellos and kisses, we poured into her already full sitting room. She disappeared into the kitchen to prepare tea. For once it was nice to see the little island full of people my own age. There was joy in the room as we all talked and introduced ourselves. The two girls I’d seen through the guest room window were missing, presumably still talking to one another. When one of them came into the sitting room for a cigarette and left again, I didn’t even have to see her face to know she was the one my intuition had told me about. Her movements, clear in the corner of my eye, drawing my attention away from the conversation I was having, were all effortless grace and easy elegance. This grace, established so many generations ago that the characteristics were inseparable from her person, such that they no longer described her, but rather, she described them. Her name, I would find out later, is Mia. What all this foreshadows can only remain to be seen, but I am loath to say more.

------

This brings me to the subject of my vulnerability, which I don’t mean to trot out like a trained horse at every opportunity in my life and in this journal, but merely hope to free for use. So many times in the past, when I’ve tried to open the door of my heart to allow people in, I’ve found it stuck like a rusty hinge. Being here helps. If I don’t open myself up to people, I’ll surely go insane. That simple bit of added urgency does wonders.

Let’s stay in touch.

One-Mile Island #15

Coming back from St. Mary’s on the Sea Horse. Photo by Nik Schulz

Living what's a dream for many of us, graphic designer Nik Schulz checked out and headed for a remote island, St. Agnes, in the north Atlantic. You can find previous excerpts through the link at right (or scrolling down).

Excerpt 15

By Nik Schulz

---12.19---
...The sea has been amazing lately, brightly lit and emerald green. The whole island has been astoundingly

vivid. Electrically enhanced, candy-chrome hues snap against black, rain-laden skies. Any more luminous, and every blade of grass, every drop of water, would simply burst from chromatic tension. It was like that when I came back from St. Mary’s the other day on the Sea Horse, the boat that normally serves the island of St. Martin’s. I stood on deck, watching the piercingly green, churning seas, my arms lashed through the railing, as we were rocked by huge swells and plunged from the crest to trough. It was all I could do to just hang on, as I grinned from ear to ear, and licked the salt from my lips.
------
Daylight has its virtues, but I’m finding darkness to be an even greater luxury. True night, flickering in front of ones eyes, playing tricks, allowing the faint outlines of buildings and blind lighthouses to slowly emerge, is a rare pleasure. How often does one have the opportunity to explore ones surroundings, familiar, like a lover in the dark, to trust touch not sight? London’s queasy orange glow keeps it up all night. Even some small towns never dare close their eyes. Here, however, we are blessed with velvety blackness. At first I felt uneasy in it, now it’s all I can do to never let my light pierce the dark.

Link: Nik’s website

Let’s stay in touch.

One-Mile Island #14

Eunuch bull. Photo by Nik Schulz

Living what's a dream for many of us, graphic designer Nik Schulz checked out and headed for a remote island, St. Agnes, in the north Atlantic. You can find previous excerpts through the link at right (or scrolling down).

Excerpt 14

By Nik Schulz

---12.15---
I went down to see Tom and Mary at Tyneham Farm the other day. They provide us our milk  supply, a quart-sized plastic bag of which appears every morning on the stone gatepost outside the cottage. I’ve wanted to say hello to the cows for sometime now, so one dark, rainy afternoon I put on my waterproofs and headed over there. The dirt road to the farm is what I imagine Minnesota looks like: land of 10,000 lakes (or puddles in this case). I ran into Tom outside as he took a bucket of cow-chow to the milking shed. “Hiya! Didn’t think you’d make it down in this weather.”

“Just a little rain,” I replied, feeling like I had earned a little admiration for braving the elements.

Searching for the cows, Tom and I headed up into the field, which turned into ankle deep mud where cows
 funnel through the gate, their hooves churning manure into the soil. It turned out they were all crowded into a corner of the hedge, sheltering from the wind and the rain. As soon as we showed up, and Tom started driving them out, they all ran past me at once. I was momentarily caught in the middle of a mini stampede as they bolted towards the feeding trough. Their stampeding, was based on wishful thinking, however. They don’t get fed until they get milked. So I helped herd them down to the milking shed. Well, Tom did most of the herding. I slapped a few flanks, imitating his technique, and managed to get a couple of cows in motion.

I don’t know why it never occurred to me before, but cows come in all kinds of shapes and sizes: tall ones, short ones, wide ones and skinny ones. Wide usually means pregnant, a state many find themselves in by their third birthday. We were in the milking shed now. Tom slid the door open and ushered the cows in two at a time. In walked the first pair, stepping up onto elevated, concrete milking platforms. They started munching on feed, which was hanging in a bucket at the end of each stall. On went the milking machine: milk, milk, milk.

Then the stalls were opened at the other end, so the cows could exit through a door at the rear of the

shed. I started to get a sense of their personalities by the way they made their entrances. Next, the shortest cow of the herd came in. She looked like a real sweetie, pregnant and impossibly wide for her height. She carried her calf like a suspended bundle that pulled her skin taut across her hips and stretched round through her mid-section. As she walked into the shed, she averted her eyes, shy, perhaps, of a stranger in her presence. Her short frame and abundant girth made it a little tricky for her to climb onto the milking platform but she managed after only a couple of missteps.

The cow that followed her in was a grand dame. She was tall and not the least bit bothered by my presence, nor was she pregnant like the others. Tom tries to have them all “in calf” in the winter so that they give birth in the spring, when it’s easiest to deal with newborns. They’ll produce more milk then as well, which coincides nicely with increased demand as the tourist season begins. This one, however, the bull had not been able to knock up, though he had, as Tom reports, given it several valiant efforts over the past few seasons. The two bulls in the field across from our house are eunuchs, as it turns out, which explains why they’re so mellow all the time. They always have a look that says, “Well, you know, I can take it or leave it, really.” No unstoppable primal instincts in that pasture.

Out went the short, pregnant sweetie and the grand dame and in came the next pair for milking. Tom hooked them up and explained more about how the dairy runs, as the milking machine pumped away. Then he paused. I was standing directly behind one of the cows. “You might want to move this way a bit,” he gestured.

“Sure.” I shifted myself to the right and not a second too soon. All I could think was “garden hose” as I watched a heavy-duty stream of cow pee splatter on the ground next to me. I gave myself a mental thumbs-up for wearing waterproof pants. “How did you know she was going to do that?” I asked.

Eunuch bulls. Photo by Nik Schulz

“Well, I’ve been doing this for a while,” he answered. Yeah, I guess with a bit of experience you learn to see things coming. Just then another cow stuck her head in through the exit door, curious, with big eyes, to see what was going on. Good fun, those cows.

As I walked back up the road, not really minding that I was covered in more urine and shit than in all but the earliest years of my life, it occurred to me that a lot of people here have great deal of responsibility. Tom and his wife have animals to look after all year long. They look after guests in the summer. They deliver milk. They’re responsible to flower distributors for their crop, and that’s not all, I’m sure.

Then I thought about my own life. What responsibility do I have? None really. Here I am on a little island, under no great pressure to produce anything, self-employed, 30-years-old. I have no one I am responsible for or to. I have arranged it this way. There are those that would say, “Lucky devil,” but I think that responsibility is the load that drives us. Too much and it crushes us, not enough and we spin freely, our virtues going untapped. It’s good to feel the weight against ones shoulder and to pull it well, to find joy in it. It’s being able to support the ones you love, to provide for your children, to do good work, and have your efforts appreciated.

It may sound like dewy-eyed, old school sentimentality, but that’s what was tugging on me as I walked up the road that night. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, I suppose. It’s been vague and cloudy lately, an unaddressed yearning. How to take on responsibility? How to love? How to work at something that fills one with joy? These are all of the big questions aren’t they? I don’t think the answer can be ferreted out through endless rumination (as I’m prone to do). The answer, I think, lies in the doing.

Let’s stay in touch.